


Academy Blues

by xaviul



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Child Abuse, Child Soldiers, Corporal Punishment, Medical Trauma, Minor Character Death, Original Troll Character - Vadaya Urvata, Original Troll Character(s) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-26 03:46:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16673920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaviul/pseuds/xaviul
Summary: A good soldier is never afraid.You repeat the saying in your mind, a mantra against the chill in your gut and the cold sweat dripping down your back. A good soldier did what they had to, no matter what, and they never let their emotions control them. You wanted to be a good soldier, that was why you were here at the academy in the first place.It was all that mattered.Vadaya Urvata's formative sweeps, spent in the not-so loving grip of the Scimitar Psionic Corps Academy and raised as a weapon.





	1. Unlock Your Potential- 3 Sweeps

Your name is Vadaya, symbolhight Urvata. You are three sweeps old, purpleblood caste chrome 9900cc. You and your lusus were wards of the Eternal Tragedy of the Melancholy Maiden, a sect of the Mirthful Church where the tenants were based in finding the catharsis of troll suffering. You did not yet truly know what that meant, but you tried your best to understand. You were devoted to this calling ever since your hue had gotten you the attention of the crechematron, young mind so easily enraptured with the idea that you were special.

You opened your ears wide for the hymns, threw yourself in to the belief that your young brain could barely wrap itself around. But you knew that your hue was divine. In your veins ran the power that you would one day use to help keep the natural order of the hemospectrum, the power that was the sign that you were blessed with the favor of the messiahs. You would be able to hear their wicked words, follow through in those highest miracles. Others of your creche have already answered their calls. You’ve been able to see them, eyes lighting up with the blessings- chucklevoodoos. You burned with the desire to connect with the divine, to become one of their mortal instruments to keep their joyous song alive.

Your time would come, you’d been instructed. Your chrome would call their words, they knew that your purple made you worthy. Even if you had to work harder than some of the other acolytes, their necks and ears clear of any taint of the sra- cusps simply did not have the same connection you had been taught, their minds turned from the true melody. You had promise, you could go far- you just had to have patience! But such things were a hard pill to swallow when you were 3 and were promised the world on a silver platter.

Your pan had ached all night, a steady throbbing pulse that seemed a counter-rhythm to the beat of your pumper. Your whole body felt off, weak and shaky one moment and then charged the next. It was scary- were you ill? You knew some illnesses could only be cured by culling, you’d seen the afflicted fall to the spiked clubs of the church. So you tried to hide it, hoping that the schoolcreche priest didn’t notice your sudden listlessness. At least the songs were ones you knew by heart, even if you couldn’t sing with your usual fervor. You could feel the priest’s eyes on you as you were all dismissed for the night, but you didn’t look back at them and they didn’t call you back.

All you really wanted to do was go curl up with your lusus, but a hand pulled at your sleeve, firm and insistent until you reluctantly turned to the troll holding on to you. Aspana was a little older than you, but she had already been blessed. You had been a bit jealous when she had been praised, had been allowed to paint her face with the design that the messiahs had shared with her. Your face was still bare white, boring. You wanted that menacing grey grin, the added sharp edges around her eyes. But Aspana had not abandoned you like you had thought she would, even if her rank was now above yours. She could be hanging with the other wrigglers who had heard the calling, but instead she had devoted herself to helping you rise.

You didn’t understand why. But you knew you appreciated it. She had been helping you after lessons to try and unlock your chucklevoodoos, with logic only youth could come up with. You had determined that your ears were _not_ clogged, that your shade of purple was right, that your laugh wasn’t too weak for them. But still you hadn’t heard anything! But Aspana was always still encouraging you, and she was eager when she hauled you off to the semi-private corner of the creche that you had both claimed as yours long ago.

“Vava, you gotta chill bro! Looking so sour, the messiahs are gonna think you’re not mirthful enough to bother with! Put a smile on if you want the miracles to come!” She grinned wide at you, wide enough for you to see the gap where she had lost a tooth last week in one of your combat classes. You tried to let her joy touch you, let a grin touch your lips as you nodded at her words. “Sorry Aspa. I just feel funny tonight. Not nice funny.”

She cocks her head at you, reminding you of your lusus when he was trying to determine a threat. “Funny? Oh Vava. Maybe that’s the messiah’s trying to talk to you! Your skull is just too thick maybe. So they gotta crack in to it.” She grins so wide, so proud of her logic that you find yourself believing it. But of course you do, you want that holy connection. “Really?” You tried not to sound too excited about the idea, but the nod of her head was eager enough for both of you. “I know how to help! Raocah told me, so you gotta listen to me okay! First off, close your eyes and stop thinking. About anything!”

You weren’t sure how to stop thinking or what not thinking would even do. But she sounded so sure so you scrunched your eyes shut, face twisting as you try to clear your mind. It was hard, trying to push out your racing thoughts, but you thought you were making progress- and that’s when Aspana hits you. She doesn’t hold back and you hadn’t been expecting it, there was no time to brace yourself and you went sprawling on to the floor of the creche. The right side of your face was suddenly heat and pain as Aspana laughs.

In Aspana’s mind, she was trying to help. Sometimes a good hit helps let the messiahs in, or so she had been told! It wasn’t like she was afraid of any suddenly blossoming chucklevoodoos, her blood was too high for such things. But when you feel something suddenly snap in your thinkpan, there is no mirthful sounds for you. Your eyes lit up in a parody of the chucklevoodoo hues, the glow burning as energy crackled in your palms. You sat up, hand instinctively reaching for your still-laughing friend, and there’s another snap in your head, something you never knew was there suddenly sliding in to place as Aspana’s laughter turned in to a shocked scream.

It took you a moment to realize that the spike of indigo energy piercing through Aspana’s shoulder led back to your shaking hand, connected to you. Next came the realization that you were panting, like you had just gone through one of the obstacle courses in class. Aspana’s scream had drawn attention, everyone was looking at you now. Looking at that spiky mass of something that, with a sudden thought, you were able to pull out of her. The shock of her injury was turning in to anger, but the crechematrons were descending on you both now. Her youthful wrath was nothing new to them, and two ferried her away quickly. You, on the other hand, they circled around warily, like you were some rabid animal.

You weren’t sure how, but it was suddenly instinct to let the energy fade, hand dropping as you sat and shook with the sudden strain. What was that? What was wrong with you!? “Acolyte Vadaya, come with us.” You shrank from that cold tone, the clear sign that you had done something wrong. You had always done your best to avoid upsetting the matrons and priests like so many other wrigglers did. You liked having their favor. Now suddenly it was all ripped from you. Your head hurt, your face hurt and suddenly it felt like your world was ending. Tears stung at your eyes as you mutely rose to join them, feeling that gap as they moved to put space between you and them. It was then you knew you were _wrong_.

* * *

The head priest had sat you down. Priest Cruciavi had always seemed such an unruffled troll, secure in her duty and her faith. You had never interacted with her one on one in this, had never been in her office. You felt so small, sitting in the hard steel seat as she gazed down at you. Before you had always felt like she had seen promise in you, in all the wrigglers put under her authority. But now her eyes were cold as she flicked through a file.

“Urvata. Sometimes, a troll is hatched with the divine in their veins, but no joy in their heart. The messiahs cannot reach a brain that’s all filled with other nonsense, I know you’ve learned that already.” She paused, clearly expecting some sort of affirmation, so you forced yourself to give her a stiff nod. You didn’t trust your voice, you didn’t trust yourself anymore. You knew you were a mess, part of your face swollen by Aspana’s hit. You had tried not to, but you had cried after the matrons had escorted you to a room to await your fate. Your paint was ruined, and everyone kept giving you looks like you had sprouted wings. You were wrong and they hated you when all you had ever wanted was to make them proud.

She waited a moment longer to see if you would speak, but then pressed on. “Without their voices, you are unblessed. You will never be able to follow them, to partake in their miracles.” Her words were the nails in the coffin of your pumper, and you could feel yourself trembling again as she continued. “There is no place in a church for a troll who cannot truly follow. No matter how much your thinkpan believes, your pumper will never howl with their rapture. However, lost little lamb, my rail whispered a little something in my ear. We hatched a plan for you, because I take care of my own. Even the ones like you. Just depends on you now, little one.”

She rose to her feet as you tried to puzzle through her words, crossing to open the door. The troll who came in was unfamiliar to you, a sharp-angled teal in a uniform that you thought looked important. The troll who followed after her was olive, far more unassuming than his partner but carrying some sort of odd machine in his arms. “Is this the one then? Big thing, isn’t he?” The teal’s eyes were assessing as they looked you over, and you felt a new flood of shame at your state. “You know us purples Censeo. We grow like weeds. He’s barely even hit his third perigee, I know you like to get your hands on them young.” Priest Cruciavi’s tone was so much warmer with the teal, a brief touch to the other’s shoulder given before she returned to her desk. Censeo look lingered a few seconds longer before she gave a sharp nod to the Olive, who moved forward to place their machine on the desk in front of you.

It was nothing you had ever seen before, but the Olive fiddled with it with a practiced ease before unhooking two bizzarre clamps from the sides. He came at you and you shrank back before Cruciavi’s sharp tsk rooted you in place. “Urvata. This is your test, lamb. You pass it, and you get a new calling. Hear me? Not every troll is meant to serve the messiahs directly. But serve you will, as long as you’re troll enough.” It was a light in your darkness, a hand offered when you felt like you were sinking. You squared your shoulders and give another nod as the Olive moved forward again.

It was hard not to flinch when the clamps were carefully attached to your horns, the slight pressure foreign. There was no warning given to you, but why bother? A switch was flipped and suddenly your head was on fire again, followed by what felt like a spike being driven deep in to your brain. It drove a strangled howl from your throat as you curled forward, but the agony vanished almost as quickly as it began. You were left sagigng and shaking as Censeo moved over to join the Olive, not even bothering to try to understand their muted whispers. You just wanted your lusus and for everything to go back to how it used to be.

“He has promise. Does he still have a lusus? He will not need anything else, the program will provide him with more suitable things.” You didn’t like all this talking about you like you weren’t there, but you were too miserable to think too hard on it. You did flinch this time when the Olive reached to take the clamps off of you, their face impassive as they packed their pain machine away and moved to stand by the door. Then the Tealblood was looking at you again, a new look on her face. “I know this is a sudden change for you. But I am sure you realize now that this is no place for you, right? But don’t worry, Cruciavi is smart enough to know that every tool has its place. You’re just different from your peers, but the Empire can use that. I heard that you were a good pupil. You still want to be good, don’t you?”

Did it really matter what you wanted? You doubted it, yet… You still wanted approval. Censeo did not look like the crechematron that had first taken you in, but that need to please was still in you. Your purpose in life had been taken, but they were offering you a new one. Your mouth was too dry, you were still trembling like a leaf- all you could do was give her a nod, watch that slow smile grow on her face.

“A wise answer. Welcome to the Scimitar Division of the Imperial Psionics Corp, Recruit Vadaya Urvata.”


	2. First Kill- 4 Sweeps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “These are trolls that the Empire has tried and judged. Their punishment is execution, but their lives will have meaning. For some of you, this will be the first time you have culled a troll. Some of you might be experienced with death- but not like this. Your actions now will be for the Empire.” Her eyes scan across your neat line, assessing before they focus on you.
> 
> “Recruit Urvata. You will be first. Step forward.”

Your name is Vadaya Urvata, but you don’t get called by it much these nights.   
Your life is rarely easy but it’s always the hardest here, in the earlier hours of the night. Your nights are full of routine, the constant conditioning that would turn wrigglers in to soldiers. You had eaten your breakfast and then it was out to the training yards for physical training.

Instructor Praecepi had told your group early on that she was there to be a chisel for recruits- she would either carve you in to perfection, or she would shatter you. You liked that about her most nights, when her training hasn’t left your body so sore that you could nearly cry at the idea of having to go to educational lessons. She was stern, but she was fair in a way that not all instructors were. She didn’t play favorites, she didn’t assume things of you because of your younger age or your blood. It wasn’t always easy being the only 4 sweep old in a group of 6-7 sweep olds, but you had refused to let that slow you down. Even if it meant spending your free hours desperately combing the library to try and keep up with more matured minds, you had always succeeded.

Just like you would tonight.

Your group stood at attention as Instructor Praecepi’s whistle sounded out, the instinct to do so hardwired in to you after a sweep of training. It was always a bit of a thrill for you to see your group move as one, an imitation of what you would one day do when you were full-fledged Scimitars. You tamped back those emotions quickly though so you could focus on the tealblood who stood in front of you, the picture perfect soldier that you all aspired to become.

“Recruits. Tonight you will have your first taste of actual rebel suppression.” Instructor Praecepi was never one to waste words- she kept them instead for when she had to set a recruit straight. You were fortunate to have escaped too much chewing out, even if it made the rest of your group sneer and call you a schoolfeed pet. It wasn’t your fault if they chose not to perform to their highest abilities and the Instructor knew it. You kept your features neutral as you wondered just what was in store for you tonight.

You certainly weren’t expecting for your Instructor to gesture towards the cages in the training field. You had always been aware of their existence, but they had faded in to the background of your life by now. They had always stood empty, but not tonight. You cursed yourself for not noticing, how dare you become complacent? That was how trolls *died*. At least the rest of your group seemed as surprised as you, especially when you realized there were trolls inside.

“One of the highest duties as a Scimitar is eliminating threats to the Empire. The most common form of this elimination is the culling of rebels.” You’re all silent as she crosses to the cages, the slide of a keycard the only sound in the field before she pulls the door open, reaching in and pulling the first troll out. They don’t look that much older than you, hands manacled together behind them. Their face is already bruised, one eye swollen shut in a mottled mess of brown and they stumble as Instructor Praecepi jerks them out in front of her.

“These are trolls that the Empire has tried and judged. Their punishment is execution, but their lives will have meaning. For some of you, this will be the first time you have culled a troll. Some of you might be experienced with death- but not like this. Your actions now will be for the Empire.” Her eyes scan across your neat line, assessing before they focus on you. “Recruit Urvata. You will be first. Step forward.”

You’re- surprised. You shouldn’t be. Instructor Praecepi often drilled it in to you to expect the unexpected, why were you caught so flat-footed? You had trained in combat against trolls plenty of nights before- your Instructor was very keen on the idea that battle could only be mastered through actual combat. Logically, you knew this night would come. Death was a part of war, of battle. How many times had you read about it? How many times had you spoken up and said that the only punishment for rebellion was death? You had had it drilled in to you so much that the words were etched in your bones.

But facing this troll now, watching them shake as Instructor Praecepi shoved them forward? There was an ice in your gut, growing colder until the voice of your Instructor rings out. “Proceed, Recruit Urvata. Serve the Empire.” It’s instinct now, to do what that voice tells you. The voices telling you what to do have changed, but you still now to obey. The scent of incense and spilled faygo is now the smell of carefully maintained grass and sweat- you are no longer an acolyte, you are a recruit. But stripped past that all, you are still a tool. And tools do not question. They do not hesitate. For now, your Instructor’s voice is that of the Messiahs you had been taught to answer to.

You step forward, swallowing hard as you let your psionics form a blade. The brownblooded troll- no, don’t think of them as a troll, only a rebel- they shrink back, but you’re quicker than them. You try to aim for the heart, to make this neat, but they twist away. Your psionics still sink in deep, but the scream they release makes the ice in your body reform. You panic as they keep moving, pull back to strike again. A cleaner shot, but so much *blood*, why-

The rebel- the corpse?- falls in front of you. You aren’t sure why you’re panting so much, why you’re *shaking*. You can only stare at the body until a large hand falls on your shoulder, turning you away to meet the teal eyes of your Instructor. “Very good, Recruit Urvata. Next time, you won’t hesitate. You did well. Culling is what the Empire will ask of you, again and again. Scimitars are the sword of the Empire, cutting down all who will oppose us.” She pauses, expecting you to reply- it takes everything in you to actually force the words out. “Yes, Ma'am.” You still feel shaky, but the feeling of her hand on your shoulder, her words- they help.

“Fall back in to line then, Vadaya. Recruit Friztl! You’re up next.”

You don’t eat that night, but at least you hold back your vomit until you are safely tucked away past curfew.


	3. Haunted- 5.3 Sweeps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I bet they culled her,” another yellowblood piped in- Vulare, one of Garrio’s goons. He was all power and no brains, just Garrio’s muscle for her when she wanted to do something nasty without having to worry about a fight. It was a shame it wasn’t him that the Instructor’s took away- but you couldn’t think like that. That was wrong.
> 
> “Why would they cull her?” Garrio didn’t spare any of her scorn even when it came to her ‘friends’, waving her spoon at him. “She’s still useable. Just not as a soldier! But, well.. She has ports. And she was strong.” She let that hang, just to watch you all squirm. You know you almost did, before you remembered you weren’t supposed to be reacting.

“Hey, where’s Frango at? I saved her a seat and everything!”

“Didn’t you hear? She wouldn’t get out of her coon this evening. Wouldn’t talk to anyone, not even Anxium. And you know how pale they were swinging.”

“Really? Was she sick? And- really? Anxium, are you sure?”

You didn’t lift your eyes from your tray- if you looked interested in what your classmates were saying they would probably just tease you. Or worse, they’d stop talking and you’d never figure out where your missing classmate went off to. You had been partnered with Frango for an assignment in First Aid this week and you’d been… Curious when she hadn’t showed up! The Instructor had just had you work on your own which had been nice, but your whole class had noticed the absence.

You ducked your head to take another bite, ears straining for more bits of gossip. Dinner was always the quietest meal in the mess hall, everyone too tired after a long night of classes and training to get too rowdy. It was your favorite time of the night really, since free time came next! Two whole hours to hole yourself up in the library and read with Xrus before curfew, and you were right in the middle of a journal left behind by a general. You had to keep a dictionary nearby for some of the words, but that was okay. The Instructors said you all had to constantly be learning after all.

“She wouldn’t even get up when the dorm leader told her too,” another voice piped up from beside you, and you glanced at the buck-toothed yellowblood beside you. Garrio usually liked to sit near you if she could- that way she could see everything you did and pick on you for it. She didn’t do it as much now that you were getting bigger, but she still kept sitting around you for meals. She just liked being mean whenever she could! Like now.

“The dorm leader even went and got Instructor Poenitus to try and make her get up. I’m right across the hall from Frango, I saw it all.” Garrio seemed to puff herself up as she gained the attention of the whole class, chin raised as she crosses her arms. You keep watching her from the corner of your eye only though, keep eating.

“Well if you saw it all, Ms. Know It All, share! Did Instructor Poenitus get her up?” You couldn’t see him from this angle, but you recognized Dextra’s voice- for a brownblood he was so big, chest as big as a barrel and with a tone to match it. Everyone liked Dextra though, it was /cool/ for him to be tall and strong. You stabbed a vegetable with a little more force, keeping your head low to hide your frown.

“Of course he did,” Garrio chided with a sniff, looking at him. “But if you really want to know what I saw… You should give me your pudding Dextra!” “What? No! I need it, don’t be greedy! Just tell us what happened!” Dextra was sounding upset, and you glanced up to watch Garrio lean forward, face sharp as she smirked. “Well no info without pudding, sorry~!” She was so mean. But the rest of the table was starting to mutter over it. Someone needed to pay the price, and well… You didn’t like pudding that much anyways.

Besides, you thought to yourself as you picked the cup up to slide towards Garrio, maybe everyone would leave you be for a while for making the sacrifice. Garrio snatched the cup up with a satisfied little snicker and you focused your eyes on your tray again when she looked at you. “Well we got the nerd interested even! Who knew he cared about the rest of us?” You could hear the sneer in her words and it made your shoulders hunch a bit.

“You got what you wanted Garrio, stop picking and spill what happened already!” Dextra to the rescue. He was pretty alright, you thought a bit begrudgingly as Garrio grumbled. He never went out of his way to be mean to you at least, even if he wasn’t friendly either. But compared to Garrio he was amazing.

“Fine, fine! Instructor Poenitus yelled at her… Like, a lot. I didn’t see that part, but I sure heard it. But I don’t think she did it. She was crying a lot though. Really loud, loud enough to hear her over the Instructor.” Some of the smugness was fading from Garrio’s voice as she leaned back, fiddling with the pudding cup. “He yelled at her for like, ten minutes. And then he just dragged her out of the coon I think! Because when he took her out of the wing she was still in her pajamas and all covered in slime.”

There was a moment of silence for the whole table, only broken by the click of Garrio’s nails against the lid of the cup. “Instructor Poenitus didn’t look happy either,” she adds after a minute, yanking the plastic off the pudding and reaching for her spoon. “So I don’t think Frango is coming back. If you ask me, I think she broke.” She digs in to the pudding as the rest of you took that news in, a few uncertain murmurs rising.

Breaking… Happened, sometimes. None of the Instructors ever called it that, but you recruits did, always in hushed tones. The Instructors always harped on you all about how they were trying to make you in to the best soldiers, the soldiers the Empire needed. How you all needed to try as hard as you could at all times, always be better than you were the night before. Not everyone could keep up, you still remember the early nights when your class had been almost twice as big as it was now.

You don’t remember the name of the first troll that had failed. It had been so long ago now, you had been little and fighting so hard to keep up with all the bigger trolls. He had been rust, you remembered that from the maroon tears. You’d been doing an obstacle course and he’d fallen right in front of you. You had tried to help him before the Instructor had come whistling over, telling him to get up.

He’d refused, and he’d looked at you so hollowly as he did. Like he expected you to do something about it. And the Instructor had forced him to his feet when he had gone crazy, had tried to attack her. You had thought the Instructor would cull him right on the spot, just from the look on her face when he swung his psionics at her. But no. Though she had hit him- a lot, you’d never seen an Instructor hit someone like that- he’d still been alive when she dragged him away.

But none of you had ever seen him again. And other recruits had gone as well, though none so dramatically. Just a troll here and there, unable to keep up with the rest of you and taken away so they wouldn’t drag you all down. It had been so long since you had lost someone though. “What do you think they’ll do with her? If she did?” Dextra asked the question you knew you were all wondering deep inside, and you glanced up in time to see him look around the table looking for an answer.

“I bet they culled her,” another yellowblood piped in- Vulare, one of Garrio’s goons. He was all power and no brains, just Garrio’s muscle for her when she wanted to do something nasty without having to worry about a fight. It was a shame it wasn’t him that the Instructor’s took away- but you couldn’t think like that. That was wrong.

“Why would they cull her?” Garrio didn’t spare any of her scorn even when it came to her ‘friends’, waving her spoon at him. “She’s still useable. Just not as a soldier! But, well.. She has ports. And she was strong.” She let that hang, just to watch you all squirm. You know you almost did, before you remembered you weren’t supposed to be reacting.

You’d read about spaceships and helmsman before. It was hard, the books were full of so many words you didn’t know that you had to keep alternating between them and your dictionary a lot and it just frustrating. But you didn’t need a dictionary for the pictures! Any troll with the right psionics with enough strength and a port could be a helmsman. Scimitar soldiers sometimes did it even, it was why they put ports in you to begin with.

Helming wasn’t the only thing you did, though. It wasn’t anywhere near the most important part! And you didn’t get trapped in to the wires, or get any of the other things you had seen in the textbooks. “They wouldn’t just helm her,” Dextra says, but he doesn’t sound very sure even to your ears. “Maybe she’s sick. You don’t know Garrio, maybe… Maybe she got hurt during training and didn’t realize it until she went to sleep, and the sopor-”

“Don’t be stupid Dextra!” Garrio’s got an extra harshness to her voice now, and she jabs the spoon at Dextra like it’s a weapon. The way he flinches back from it makes you think he thought so too, but he leans forward again with a scowl. “We all have to serve just like the Instructors always say,” Garrio continues, ignoring his look to focus on her pudding cup. “We’re all lucky! We get to serve in a way that’s important but gives us good stuff. Scimitar soldiers get taken care of, they get big stipends and apartments and ships… They don’t get shoved /in to/ the ships. That’s why I joined!”

You wonder if you would have been helmed if you weren’t in Scimitar. You mulled over the idea as you picked at your meal. You weren’t hungry anymore, but you knew it was best to force yourself to eat even if you weren’t. Helms were psionics, but they were lowbloods. But you were a weird highblood, so maybe they would have.

The images from the textbooks which had seemed so mordibly interesting before were hovering over your head now, haunting your thoughts. If it wasn’t for Scimitar, you could have been strung up with no arms and legs, a tube in your stomach and wires all through your body… Compared to that, the Scimitar augments were nothing.

You looked down at your hands, flexing them as you tried to picture black steel instead of flesh. You didn’t think it would be too much longer before you got your own, everyone else had gotten theirs after all. You couldn’t keep up in psionic lessons no matter how hard you tried and even the Instructors weren’t as harsh on you about it when you lapsed behind. You wanted to keep doing better. You wanted to be a good soldier, so good you never had to worry about Scimitar not wanting you.

You fixed that thought in your mind as Dextra slid his tray away from himself, only half-eaten. “I’m gonna go check medical,” he announces to the table as he stands, jaw clenched and face twisted. “I don’t feel too good anyways. I’ll tell Frango all about what you said about her too Garrio, don’t worry.” He storms off towards the Instructor in charge of supervising the mess hall tonight, Garrio scoffing as she pulls his tray closer to herself.

“What, was he flushed for her or something and I didn’t know?” She turns to look at Vulare, voice sour. “He’s such a jerk. I was only telling him the truth, he’ll see! He just better not get upset at me because of it. It’s not like I told Frango to be weak enough to break! It just means she wasn’t meant to be a soldier after all. Who knows? Maybe she’ll be happy being a helmsman on some ship somewhere. She was always weird.”

She doesn’t sound like she believes herself and you don’t think anyone else does. There’s a new silence over the table now, tense and awkward and you wish the chime for free time would hit already. It was easier not to worry about this stuff if you were reading instead. And maybe… Maybe you could go to your little nook in the corner of the history section, where the massive bookcases would hide you away from everyone unless they were really looking for you.

You hadn’t gone there in a long, long time… But you thought you would still fit. You could just curl up with your lusus and read, forget all about this. The thought buoyed you some even with the worried gossiping around you, spreading to the other class tables in a low buzz of noise. Everyone would know Frango was gone now. It’d be all you’d hear about for nights and nights, until something else stole the spotlight.

You felt bad thinking like that, but it was true! Everyone knew it, except maybe Dextra. Garrio sniffed again beside you before she laughed, a short little bark that surprised you enough that you looked up. “But why let it ruin our night?” She questioned the table, claws clicking against Dextra’s tray. “One troll’s trash is another troll’s treasure! One troll who isn’t a soldier is a helm instead. And,” she continues, reaching for Dextra’s abandoned dessert, “Dextra’s pudding is my treasure now.”

You duck your head back at the few snickers her awful joke got and focused on counting the minutes to free time down.

Maybe you’d focus on your presentation for First Aid instead. You doubt you’d get to ask for Frango’s part of it now.


	4. Be Careful What You Wish For- 5.5 Sweeps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her pat on your shoulder is nice, a fleeting warmth before they move down to your hand. You watch her face as she examines your augment, not quite willing to see what she’s doing. It’s bad enough that you can feel it- or is it what you can’t feel that makes you uncomfortable? Knowing she’s touching part of your hand but only feeling it when she probes at healing skin with skilled fingers. “Don’t worry about the boredom, recruit. You’re healing up wonderfully, you’ll be back with your group in no time!” She notices your gaze and meets it, olive eyes so earnest behind her glasses. You can’t hold the gaze for long, not like this, so you let your eyes drop to her chin as you answer. “Yes, Mediculler Attigi.”

Waking up after surgery had been a blur. The sopor in the recovery coon and the drugs left in your system did a lot to help, but the pain still had still danced there at the edge of your mind. It was almost the same pain from psionics training, the same distance you got from yourself when you were busy pouring yourself in to a construct.

At least, it was until you made the mistake of /moving/. Twisting your head to try and find the opening of the coon was agony, sharp and consuming. Raising your hands- instinctively, stupidly- just caused more pain. You didn’t notice the mediculler moving over to you, injecting a syringe in to the IV threaded in to you. All you felt was the pain ebb, followed by the blackness of sleep.

You were monitored during your healing, you and the other three Scimitar hopefuls in the medbay. You healed quicker than them, their lowerblooded bodies struggling as yours sealed up quicker. Like you were made for them- and weren’t you? This was your place in life. It didn’t take you long to move from the recovery coon to a reclination platform, even if you had to lay on your stomach to do it. There was still a hitch in your back, but your hands- your hands…

It was still a shock, to look down and see them. The black and red of your new projection stabilizers was so startling, especially when the edges where they met skin were still so irritated. Your time in the coon had done most of the healing, but the skin was still adjusting to your new additions. Your middle fingers were the worst you thought, but the damage was hidden away by the the sleekness of your augment. Such thin, wonderful technology. You were honored to have it be a part of you now, but you couldn’t help but notice how differently you held your hands.

(Sometimes, if you weren’t careful, you found yourself picking at them. Only when the medicullers aren’t around, prying at a hand like you could rip it out of you. You don’t understand your feelings then- you had wanted this, you needed your augments to be a proper Scimitar. Sometimes you had to just sit there with your claws digging in to your palms, trying to ignore the fact that there were only three pricks of blood instead of four.)

Your neck, well. There was no good way to see it. You had tried the first time you had seen the mirror in the bathroom, but angling yourself to be able to actually get a glimpse had nearly sent you crashing to the floor. All you could do was stroke over the ports and metal, try to connect the sensation with the augment information you knew from training. The two steroid ports that would one night be used to amplify your psionics, your main port for helming, you carefully mapped it all out time and time again. You couldn’t quite get yourself to do more than skim around the edges of the ports, trying to go further made you feel like you couldn’t *breathe*.

The neat click-click of heels on the tiled floor had you pulling your hand away from your neck, trying to school your features in to bored neutrality. It wouldn’t do to look like a wriggler with their hand in the cookie jar after all, or like you were… Upset. Your augments were an honor, you couldn’t make them feel like you weren’t aware of how important they were. You didn’t know what happened to trolls who rejected their augments and you didn’t want to find out.

“Recruit Urvata. How are you feeling tonight? Time for your examination.” The Mediculler’s voice was a soft croon, like you were some injured animal that needed taming. You think it was supposed to be soothing, and perhaps it was- for other wrigglers. You didn’t need to be calmed. “I am alright, Mediculler Attigi. Just… Bored.” That seemed an alright complaint to make. You weren’t allowed up from the platform except to go to the bathroom or to go to coon, there was very little for a troll to do in such a situation.

Her pat on your shoulder is nice, a fleeting warmth before they move down to your hand. You watch her face as she examines your augment, not quite willing to see what she’s doing. It’s bad enough that you can feel it- or is it what you can’t feel that makes you uncomfortable? Knowing she’s touching part of your hand but only feeling it when she probes at healing skin with skilled fingers. “Don’t worry about the boredom, recruit. You’re healing up wonderfully, you’ll be back with your group in no time!” She notices your gaze and meets it, olive eyes so earnest behind her glasses. You can’t hold the gaze for long, not like this, so you let your eyes drop to her chin as you answer. “Yes, Mediculler Attigi.”

She clucks her tongue, but the sound is more fond than annoyed. You wonder how long she’s worked here, for a moment. She seemed to know what she’s doing at least, how to handle both your augments and your personality. She switches to the other hand and you let your eyes shift out of focus, just trying to ignore it all-

“Oh. Recruit Urvata, are you twitching your finger?” That snaps you out of it as quick as a slap across the face, blinking before you glance down. She has your hand between her own and there’s no mistaking the spastic twitches of your middle finger. Now that you’re watching it, you can feel it- distant, your body moving without any control. “No, Mediculler Attigi. I mean- it is moving, but I do not- I can not make it stop.” Your Instructors would be on you in an instant if they could hear you now. A soldier does not fall over themselves to answer a question, and they certainly do not make excuses.

But you’re not on the training fields, or in a lecture hall. You’re in the medbay, with its sterile clean scent and the Mediculler watching you with a strange look on her face. “It’s alright, recruit. You didn’t do anything wrong. It happens sometimes, it’s just your nerves adjusting to the new gear. It’ll clear up in a few nights, I just need to document it.” Her voice is back to that croon, but you don’t find it so horrible this time. It helps you look away from your hand at least, settling back in to silence as she finishes examining it and moves to your back.

You’re not sure if you’re more sensitive there or if it’s your imagination. But you were used to your hands being touched more than your neck. Training to keep your neck protected started even before you had a port shoved in to it, after all. Her hands felt like brands now, even when you knew she was being careful. “I’m sure you’re still a lot more tender up here, huh? Any headaches? Bloody noses? Weakness of your limbs?” You’re back to the usual procedure now, and the familiarity helps you unwind further as you dutifully repeat ‘No, Mediculler Attigi’ to each question.

She doesn’t linger too long before she’s pulling away to smile at you. There’s no indigo on the gloves she disposes of, which you think is a good sign- some nights your back had acted up. “As I said before, everything is coming along nicely. No signs of rejection, I’m sure you’ll be discharged in a few nights now.” She sounds so cheerful, obviously trying to lift your spirits. You wonder for one morbid moment if she’s the one who cut you open.

You force on your best attempt at a smile, even if it felt shaky. “Thank you, Mediculler Attiga. That sounds nice.” Her hand reaches for you and you resist the urge to duck your head away when she pats your hair. It’s too much like what you might do in a moment of affection towards your lusus, and that image combined with your earlier thought makes your stomach roll for a moment. You have to settle your thoughts, remind yourself how silly you were being. What did any of that matter? You were built for this. You would be /happy/ about this.

Her hand pulls away, and the crinkling of plastic catches your attention. When you glance up the mediculler is offering you a lollipop, a garish purple thing that you instinctively take. “For being a good patient, Recruit Urvata. Enjoy it!” She’s still smiling, but there’s an expectant edge to her face now. “Thank you, Mediculler Attiga.” You’re hoping another thank you is enough to appease her, but she’s not budging. You know what she wants, and you’re conditioned to obey orders even when you don’t want to.

You have to shift carefully to get both arms where you can see, one hand holding the stick of the sweet while the other grasps at the plastic covering it. The smoothness of your stabilizer slides against it before your normal- not normal, they’re all normal now- fingers grip and twist it off. You stick it in to your mouth as the mediculler beams, reaching for your hair once more before she takes a step back. “I’ll be back to check on you again before daybreak. You know how to call if you need anything.” She’s waiting again, but she takes your nod as agreement. Your mouth is full, after all.

The taste of sweetness and imitation grape sits heavy against your tongue when she finally moves away. You wait a few breaths before you rip it from your mouth, clumsily throwing it in to the hazardous waste bin beside your bed. You can only hope that she doesn’t see it later, that she doesn’t come back with more. Things would be better when you were out of medbay, you just had to focus on that. Had to focus on being happy and proud.

The taste of sugar in your mouth became tied to the memories of being a hurt wriggler, afraid of what he had longed for for so long.


	5. Honor- 5.8 Sweeps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You stood in front of the desk, back to attention as Instructor Certamen passed you to take their seat. For a moment they just stared, but you knew better than to try and meet their blue-indigo eyes. You knew not to try and speak first, you waited until they finally leaned back in their seat with a sigh that ripped through you with its disappointment.
> 
> “They say that a highblood’s anger makes us strong,” they tell you, and part of you wants them to just stop talking and punish you. You didn’t want this dragged out but they persisted, fingers twined together in front of them. “But that is a foolish idea. Rage dulls the mind and will only lead a troll to their end. Do you understand that, Recruit Urvata?” You stand a little straighter at the question, trying to keep your voice even as you reply. “Yes Mx, I understand.”
> 
> It’s a few heartbeats of silence before they lean forward. “‘Temper is a weapon that we hold by the blade’, Recruit. Some might think that it is a weapon to wield, and for some it may be worth it despite the wounds it inflicts on the user. But not here. And never against your own. If I hadn’t walked in, what would you have done to Recruit Crituk?”

“Urvata, look!”

“Don’t bother with him. He doesn’t have the time for anyone unless you’re an Instructor.”

“Is he really five sweeps? He’s so tall.”

“He’s Indigo, genius. They don’t come in any size but large.”

You tried your best to tune out the mutterings of the other recruits as you took your seat, tried not to grit your teeth or scowl. It was what they wanted, to needle a reaction out of you! If you gave it to them, they’d just keep poking and poking at you. They were like the fish you had read about in the library, bunching together in schools and ready to go in to a feeding frenzy if you bled.

You hated that academics was shared with other groups of recruits. You knew your class well now after spending over two sweeps with them. You knew none of them liked you, they never would, but they had mostly grown tired of teasing you. You weren’t the same easy target you had been, no longer small and confused about everything around you.

You had grown, you had learned. You were just as tall now as some of the other recruits, had learned how to use your highblooded strength in the same ways they knew. You no longer had to fight to find the right word to use in Standard, could no longer be fooled in to thinking you had misspoke by laughter. There was sometimes barbs thrown your way, attempts to keep things the way they’ve always been, but they keep their distance.

Other groups? You were still a novelty, sometimes. You hadn’t really spoken to anyone in this group, you only knew they were new. 7 and 8 sweep olds to match with the usual age in your group, leaving you the odd troll out again. You’d learned to keep up though over the sweeps though, enough that there had never been talk of moving you in to a group closer to your own age. You were glad, really. Your group hated you from how you had been, the young highblood who knew nothing. You couldn’t imagine how much you’d be hated for being the highblood who knew everything.

You kept your eyes ahead as their muttering quieted for a moment, but you could feel their eyes on the back of your neck like a brand. You couldn’t pay them any attention, Instructor Certamen was your favorite and today was a quiz on military tactics. You had to do well, eager for praise from your teacher. Instructor Certamen was like you after all, or close- the navy of their symbol was close to cusp status.

Many of your instructors were teals or blues, save for those that focus on your psionic trainings, but none were indigo. And Instructor Certamen was fair to you even when you made a mistake, not mean like Instructor Eruditas could be. And they didn’t pretend you weren’t there like Instructor Avorsari did, refusing to call on you for an answer even when you knew you were right. And Instructor Senectae you think never realized you weren’t still a three sweep old, judging by the way she still looked at you like she thought you’d have a tantrum in the middle of class at any time.

It wasn’t fair, sometimes. You were smart, you kept up with the older wrigglers out in the training fields and in the classroom. Even if your class hated you more for it, you were always determined to succeed!

“C'mon, look! Don’t be lame Urvata.” You still refused to look back at the taunt, fingers clenching around your textbook. You acted older than a lot of the other wrigglers too, you thought bitterly as you opened the pages to try and find your place. You had been learning about the second Great Campaign of Enforcer Griefcry in the reign of the 42nd Empress and you wanted to use the time before class started to review the material. You thought you knew all the answers, but you wanted to make sure! Instructor Certamen always took time to hand back the highest graded quizzes themself, you wanted to do perfect so they’d come over to you.

It’d just make the taunts of being a teacher’s pet worse, but you didn’t care. Your classmates didn’t matter unless you had to work with them for a class! No one dared tempt the wrath of the Instructors by taking time out of a lesson to pick on you, it was the only time you felt like it was safe to talk to them. You stuck your nose in to your book and tried your best to look absorbed by the words, hoping that your annoying little classmate would get the hint.

For a few minutes, you thought it had worked. The had at least stopped talking and you felt yourself relax and actually focus on the pages. Griefcry was leader of the Fifth Legion, 5,000 trolls strong-

Something jabbed at your neck, a sharp prick of pain to the left of the top of your augment. You couldn’t help the shocked trill that escaped you as you lurched forward, a hand reaching to bat at the source. The clatter of wood hitting the ground was quickly deafened by the laughter of your classmates as you dropped your book on to your desk, twisting around to find out what had happened.

“I was just trying to get you to pay attention to me!” It was the same voice you had been ignoring, only now you could see the source. The brown piping on his recruit uniform told you he was a lowblood even if his blood wasn’t rushing to his cheeks as he stared at you. You’d never seen him before, not that you could remember! You looked to the ground, eyes locking on the pencil you had smacked from his hand before you looked at him again. Why was he bothering you?!!

“They really gave you your ports already? Is it because you’re so big already? You got your hands done too!” He either doesn’t notice your shock or he’s ignoring it, grinning wide enough to show off his tusks. “I’m Crituk, by the way! Jaksin was telling me about you, and-” His words cut short as you reach for your psi, just enough of a tendril to reach for the pencil and bring it to your hand.

It’s so tempting to crush it in to splinters. The other recruits were still watching, more interested in drama than they were their books. Instructor Certamen still wasn’t here to keep anyone in line and they all wanted your blood, didn’t they? You could feel your chest burning with a wave of anger at this strange troll who was just teasing you, your mind racing. Was he just being cruel to gain popularity? That had to be it.

You slam the pencil down on his desk hard enough to quiet part of the room, teeth clenched as you ignored the stinging in your palm. “Leave me alone,” you hiss lowly at him, hating the feeling of so many eyes on you as you turn back in your seat. You have to pick up your book to try and stop the trembling in your hands, ducking your head as you tried to wait for the classroom to return to normal. You hated feeling like this, like you wanted to just curl up and disappear. You wanted to be back in your room with your lusus for a moment, a thought you viciously tried to squash. You weren’t a wriggler, you didn’t need to go crying to Xrus just because a troll was trying to be mean to you!

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you any!” He- Crituk- doesn’t know when to leave something be. You could feel the heat in your chest rush up your neck, to your face as the recruit next to you snickered. And still building in your ribcage until it finally bubbled up your throat, a rumbling sound that you didn’t feel like you could stop. You were just so angry now, he wouldn’t leave you alone and you- you didn’t mean to stand up, to whirl back around and snarl at him, loud and ugly. “I said LEAVE ME ALONE!”

You should have felt embarrassed as he shrank back in his seat, eyes wide and face pale. You didn’t act out like this, you just didn’t. Not since you were new, when every moment of anger earned you punishment from your instructors and taunting from the other wrigglers. Stupid angry highblood, all rage and no pan. You weren’t like that, you weren’t! You were shaking completely as you stared down at him, looming without meaning to. You just wanted him to agree to leave you alone, to act like you didn’t exist. You wanted-

“What is the meaning of this, Recruit Urvata?” The clipped, measured words of your Instructor felt like a slap in the face. A container of water dumped on the fire of your anger, leaving you stumbling and unsure as you looked to the entrance of the room where the adult was standing. They didn’t look impressed- they didn’t look happy.

“I-I just-” you didn’t know what to say, mind racing. The whole room was silent now, everyone trying their best to look innocent with an Instructor here. You dug your nails in to the flesh of your palms as you tried to regain some of your calm, shoulders hunched as you watched Instructor Certamen. They didn’t want excuses- none of the Instructors ever did. Trying to excuse away what you did was worse than doing nothing, would get you punished more.

“My office, Recruit. Now.” Instructor Certamen’s words were colder than usual, the last command snapping you from hesitating over your book. Your anger was gone completely now as you stepped away from your desk, forced yourself to walk between the others towards the door. No one was looking at you now, but there was no comfort in it now. Everyone knew you would be punished and no one wanted to be involved. Not now- the taunts would come later, when the Instructor wasn’t present.

You almost slowed as you passed your Instructor, wondering if they would give you more orders. But they stayed quiet, just watching you until you pulled the door open and slipped out in to the hall. You knew the way to their office, but you just wanted to run away. Run to your room, hide- but that would just get you punished more. You were a soldier, soldiers didn’t run. Not unless they wanted to die.

So you swallowed back your fear and you started walking, even if your legs felt like they were made of lead. Down to the Instructor’s wing, passing the halls until you reached the one etched with Instructor Certamen’s symbol. You didn’t know if they wanted you to wait outside for them or to enter the office and the haziness of the order just caused a new tightness of your chest. If you got it wrong would you be punished more? Would they punish you more for standing out in the hall, or for entering their office without permission?

You finally decided on standing beside the door, pulling yourself in to attention like you were taught. You forced your eyes ahead, tried not to let your breath get too rushed- Instructors were always on recruits for signs of nervousness, you had to be good. It wouldn’t make up for your mistake, but you could try and stop yourself from making more.

You didn’t know how long you were left to wait until Instructor Certamen came. You heard them before you saw them, the click of their boots on the tiles, but you kept your eyes ahead even as they passed you to open the door to their office. “Inside Recruit,” they command with a flick of a wrist, eyes on you as you stiffly moved in to the room.

You liked Instructor Certamen’s office- you’d only been here a few times in the past, but it was the kind of office you wanted some night. They kept it orderly but full of bookcases filled with books, trinkets of history and of their life. You didn’t know how old they were, but you had the feeling they had seen hundreds of sweeps. The number seemed so alien to you- would you live so long? No, you’d live even longer. As long as nothing killed you, that is.

You stood in front of the desk, back to attention as Instructor Certamen passed you to take their seat. For a moment they just stared, but you knew better than to try and meet their blue-indigo eyes. You knew not to try and speak first, you waited until they finally leaned back in their seat with a sigh that ripped through you with its disappointment.

“They say that a highblood’s anger makes us strong,” they tell you, and part of you wants them to just stop talking and punish you. You didn’t want this dragged out but they persisted, fingers twined together in front of them. “But that is a foolish idea. Rage dulls the mind and will only lead a troll to their end. Do you understand that, Recruit Urvata?” You stand a little straighter at the question, trying to keep your voice even as you reply. “Yes Mx, I understand.”

It’s a few heartbeats of silence before they lean forward. “‘Temper is a weapon that we hold by the blade’, Recruit. Some might think that it is a weapon to wield, and for some it may be worth it despite the wounds it inflicts on the user. But not here. And never against your own. If I hadn’t walked in, what would you have done to Recruit Crituk?”

It wasn’t a question you were prepared for. You felt hot standing there, like you were in a furnace even though you knew better. “I…” You see their eyes narrow at your hesitance and you forced the words out, not letting yourself think. “I don’t know Mx. He just kept bothering me and I wanted him to stop-” They raised a hand and you choked on your explanation, ears burning at your stupidity. What had happened to being good!?

“You should have waited for me to come to the room and told me about the harassment Recruit Urvata. It’s my job to take care of the other recruits. I know you know of the chain of command- I know you made a mistake tonight. And I know that when I let you leave this office, it’ll be a mistake you’ll never make again.” You swallow against that promise, force yourself to stay still and keep breathing.

“We are raising you all to be soldiers worthy of serving your Empire. The duty you will one night be trusted with is an honor- it isn’t a right. We only accept the best Recruit Urvata, because anything else is just an insult to our institution. We don’t care about your caste or your psionics- we care that you can and will carry out every order to the best of your abilities. Do you understand?” You have to swallow again before you can answer, throat feeling so dry. “Yes Mx, I understand. I will control my temper in the future. I want to carry out my duty. I want the honor to do so, Mx.”

It was more of an answer than training called for and as the words spilled out you worried that it was a mistake. But Instructor Certamen didn’t look angrier at least, dropping their hands. “That’s good recruit,” they said, but the praise doesn’t feel nearly as good as it usually does. “I hope you remember this next time you find yourself getting angry. A soldier must always be in control of themselves in every situation. They can’t let the taunts of another cause them to act hastily- even the taunts of one of their own.”

There’s quiet again, but you don’t think this is over. It was the eye of the storm, like you had read about- the false peace that could break out in a battle before chaos came again. Part of you wants to ask why Crituk wasn’t here being punished with you, if they were going to get away with what they did because you got angry. But you weren’t a wriggler, you wouldn’t cry. You had to be a soldier.

The thought was a cold comfort as Instructor Certamen rose from their seat again. They were so tall, a fully grown highblood- usually you weren’t so aware of the difference. Of how the top of your head only barely hit chest-height, how strong they looked for a troll who had a career teaching wrigglers history. You heard the slide of a drawer but you forced your eyes to stay ahead, fighting down the sinking dread that was forming again in your stomach.

“You’re a smart wriggler, recruit. I don’t like punishing any of you, let alone the smart ones.” You couldn’t help the way your ears strained for any noise, any hint of what was coming. You only heard something sliding across the wood, unseen from your angle. You couldn’t look, you couldn’t break attention and risk angering them more. You were sweating as the drawer clicked closed again, sounding so loud in the silence of the office. 

“Don’t be stubborn- let this punishment stick. You’re too sharp to lose yourself to baser emotions again, I hope. No more moments like I saw in the classroom again. Because I don’t want to have to have you back in my office again like this. And if you are, I’ll make tonight seem like a dream. Understand?” You didn’t. You did, the promise in their voice. You just wished you didn’t, but they were watching. Waiting as they took a step from around the desk.

“Yes, Mx. I understand.”


	6. Fallen- 6.5 Sweeps

The moons were high in the sky above you as you focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Every part of you was aching now, had been aching for… You’ve lost track of time now. Your world has narrowed down to the path in front of you, the pant of your breath in the heated air and the burn of your body.

You’d made a mistake. A foolish, foolish mistake. You had known Instructor Poenitus was always strict about pushing recruits to their furthest. He accepted nothing but the best out of everyone, he did not ask for more than what a troll could provide. When he had told you to keep pace with the rest of your class, it had not been your place to say anything but ‘Yes Sir’. You should have done as commanded.

But you- stupid, stupid you- had gotten it in your head to speak back. To point out that your fellow recruits had two sweeps on you, had longer legs. The throb from where he had tossed you as soon as the words had escaped you was buried under the rest of your aches now, but it was rightfully deserved. All of this was.

The rest of the recruits hadn’t stared- they knew better. Everyone had stayed in formation, waiting for orders as you had gotten your verbal lashings. Not a face twitched, but you knew they were all secretly pleased by it. You could feel eyes on you now and then still, when Instructor Poenitus’ attention strayed long enough to allow a peek. None of them liked you, they never had. Ever since you had first arrived as a confused wriggler, mostly speaking a language no one understood and with your veins full of a color that just didn’t belong.

Now they got to see you knocked down a peg. You usually didn’t make such errors, you didn’t know what was wrong with you. Part of you wanted to blame it on your current growth spurt, the way your body kept aching as it strove to grow up and out as quickly as you could. You were constantly hungry, constantly swinging through emotions that you weren’t used to. You should have stayed quiet, you know you should have. But for one moment it had all seemed so unfair, and you had /snapped/, and now-

-now you were being punished. /If you couldn’t keep up with the other recruits/, you remember the words, the shout still ringing in your ears, /maybe you needed more practice. Get running, Recruit. And don’t you dare stop until I tell you to./ You hadn’t been stupid enough to argue further, at least there was that. But you were still so dumb, so foolish, such a failure.

At least you could take your punishment right. You could keep going, keep running until you’re told to stop. You’d run all night if you had to, all day. Whatever it took to prove you could be a good recruit, a good soldier again. You just had to keep repeating that in your mind, over and over as you ran. To keep yourself motivated, to keep moving even when you wanted to collapse. You couldn’t fail, not again.

You knew not every recruit made it through training. You’d seen some recruits break, unable to give what it took to go on. Others just hadn’t been good enough, called away by the instructors and never coming back. Some of the other recruits liked to gossip that they got culled, but that all seemed like nonsense to you. Or at least it had seemed like nonsense, before now.

You had always had to work hard, from the moment you had come here so long ago. Scorned for your language, for the way you had talked. You’d thrown your other tongue away, practiced speaking Standard in the same educated slant that your Instructors always used in private moments in your room and your library. And then they had teased you for that- for sounding 'stuck up’, acting like you were an Instructor yourself. Like you thought you were better than them.

You’d realized then that you’d never win. Not with them. And you had convinced yourself that it didn’t matter. That they didn’t matter. The chances of you getting stuck with any of them in your future battery were slim! 'Inconsequential’, you liked that word better even if your tongue caught on all the letters sometimes still. You’d given up on them then and focused on your studies. On your lusus and your books and getting yourself ready so that when you graduated, you’d be ready for the trolls who did matter.

Flunking out had never really occurred to you before now, but suddenly your mind was consumed by the thought. You couldn’t tell if the claws around your heart were from the new fear or exhaustion, especially when your stumbled on your next step. It was so tempting to go down, to lay in the dirt. To rest. But you couldn’t. Instructor Poenitus hadn’t told you to stop after all.

But you’d been running so long. Around and around the training fields, long after the other recruits had finished their runs and had gone on to other trainings. They were practicing holds and grapples and then there was you, still running. Perhaps Instructor Poenitus had forgotten about you? No. No, an Instructor wouldn’t forget about a recruit. You just had to wait until he thought you had learned your lesson. Hadn’t you yet, though? …No. No you hadn’t, if you were still trying to complain to yourself.

You could feel yourself getting shaky, your steps less sure even as you tried to focus them. You kept trying to take in air but it never felt like enough, vision swimming as you tried to keep pushing forward. Your vision went black for a startling moment before the track reappeared in front of you for a moment. Black, track, black, track, black-

-you don’t remember falling. The only thing that probably saved your face from meeting the trampled dirt of the track was your training, bringing your arms up to take the landing instead. You’d wanted to rest, but this wasn’t the relief you were craving. You couldn’t fail, you wouldn’t! Your stomach was rolling as you tried to push yourself up, trying to work past the nausea. No one threw up during training anymore, you weren’t some greenhorn. You needed to get back up. You hadn’t gotten the order to stop.

But your body didn’t want to agree with you. Your arms shook as you tried to push off the ground and you wobbled before you hit the dirt again. You could hear a distant shout but you couldn’t understand it as you panted in to the dirt, trying to convince yourself to try again. To get up before you got kicked out, before you failed at the one thing you were meant to do.

Boots crunched near your head, a shadow falling over you as you quaked in the dirt. “Well recruit,” the booming voice was unmistakable, but you expected more heat from your Instructor. “Have you learned your lesson?” Had you? Yes, you decided quickly. Yes you had. “Yes sir,” you forced the words out between gasps, hoping he could understand you. You couldn’t find the energy to look up at him, to do anything but lay where you were until there was a hand on the back of your uniform, pulling you up.

It hurt. You wanted to just crumple back on the ground as he forced you to your feet, but the water bottle he shoved at you was enough reason to keep yourself up. You wanted to guzzle it, but you knew better after all these sweeps. You forced quick mouthfuls, trying to combat the need for air and water and trying not to choke in front of your Instructor. You didn’t need the extra humiliation.

You couldn’t snap to attention the way you should have when he started to speak to you again. You could only raise your head and try to look ahead like you were taught, quietly wailing at the failures of your own body. “I am not here to be questioned by recruits, do you understand me Urvata? I push you to be what the Empire needs you to be. When you’re in a battery, on the field, there’s no 'I can’t’. If you can’t do something, you’re dead. Your battery is dead. Do you understand me?”

He was right. Of course he was right, he was your Instructor. “Yes sir,” you forced out again, trying to calm your breathing as he watched you. Part of you was afraid he’d tell you to rejoin your class. You couldn’t grapple right now- no. If he told you to, you would. “Get to Medical. Tell them to get you some fluids, understand me? I’m informing the mess hall you’re on reduced rations. Obviously we’ve been too soft on you.”

It was easier to stomp down the part of you that wanted to protest. Wanted to ask how you’d train if you didn’t eat. It was punishment and you’d take it without a word. You’d prove you could be better, be what you needed to be. “Yes sir,” you say again, trying to salute. It’s not a good attempt, but Poenitus doesn’t call you on it.

“Dismissed then, Recruit Urvata. The next time you’ve fallen, it’d better be because you’re dead.”


	7. Sword- 6.5 Sweeps

A good soldier is never afraid.

You repeat the saying in your mind, a mantra against the chill in your gut and the cold sweat dripping down your back. A good soldier did what they had to, no matter what, and they never let their emotions control them. You wanted to be a good soldier, that was why you were here at the academy in the first place. It was all that mattered.

But you’d never expected to be put against your classmates like you were tonight. When Instructor Crustare had called you up in front of the rest of the class at the beginning of the lesson, you’d just thought at first that he was going to use you as an example for a new grapple or hold. You’d been unsuspecting when you gave him a salute, and when he had told you to turn and face your class, you’d done it without thinking. You could take a throw, or endure the pain of a hold better than anyone else, and that was why you were Crustare’s favorite test subject.

You’d never really thought past that, though, except when Crustare steps forward beside you. “Cadets. How many of you have actually fought a highblood?” He asks, voice loud enough to carry, and only habit keeps your face blank and your breathing even. Despite your training the rest of your class was a bit thrown off as well, and there’s a brief murmur that passes over them that’s silenced by Crustare’s gaze.

“We’ve fought Cadet Urvata, sir,” a voice rises up, and you don’t need to look to see who it is that finally braves an answer. Garrio’s oversized front fangs always gave her voice a lisp, distinct from the rest of the class. But where you were taunted for the way you talked, no one ever seemed to bother Garrio. You tamped down the flicker of old irritation as easily as you would an ember, and focused on Crustare in the corner of your vision instead.

“You haven’t fought him, Cadet Garrio. Oh, sure. You’ve sparred with him, both of you using your psionics. You’ve done the blows I’ve taught you, the holds, and you’ve all gone about them like robots. Cadet Urvata,” he looks to you, and you try, impossibly, to stand up even straighter. “Yes, sir?”

“When Cadet Garrio hits you, does it hurt you Cadet?” You don’t hesitate, because hesitation would just get you punished. Soldiers didn’t have time to be conflicted, they had to be able to make split-second decisions at any time. “Sometimes, sir. But not often,” you add, and Garrio can’t quite keep the heat from her eyes as she watches you. But she’s trained too, and the only other sign of her anger is in the tightness of her shoulders as Crustare nods.

“Tonight is going to be an important lesson for all of you. Urvata, Garrio, in the arena.” You salute again, arms feeling like lead, but you know better than to ask a question. Whatever this lesson was, it would be a physical one before it became a verbal one. Crustare liked to do that sometimes, with the idea that experiencing it before he told you what you had experienced would make the lesson stick. Usually, it wasn’t a fun lesson.

But lessons weren’t supposed to be fun, you reminded yourself as you watched Garrio get in to the ring opposite of you. At least she’ll have an opportunity now to show you how much her blows can hurt, rather than the verbal hits she’d just use later. But then, there’s no saying she won’t just do both.

You relax your body in a more ready pose, unsure of what lesson there was here tonight. You kept your eyes on your opponent, but in your peripheral you can see Instructor Crustare moving away, drawing every other classmate’s attention with him. But you didn’t let yourself look, not until he was at the edge of the arena and you could see his arm pull back.

You looked, just in time to watch your instructor toss in two swords in the middle of the ring. They were the same dulled metal that you used in simulation training, where your other instructors had taught you the basics of physical combat. But you’d never actually used them on another troll before, not like this. “Don’t just stare at them!” Crustare barks, and both of you snap forward to grab one.

Garrio gets hers first, the sword glowing faint burgundy before it was pulled towards her. Garrio smirked at you, a fleeting bit of satisfaction in seeing you bend to pick up the weapon left behind that fades when Crustare speaks again. “Did I tell you to use your psionics, Cadet Garrio?”

“No, sir.” Even though her voice is even, you’re close enough to her to see the confusion in her eyes and know that it’s probably a mirror to your own. Psionics were never something that was controlled, not in casual ways like using it to pick things up. You’d all always been encouraged to use your psionics as much as you could, to strengthen them and make yourself familiar with them. But you have a sinking feeling that it has something to do with tonight’s lesson, a suspicion that’s soon confirmed as Crustare steps back.

“No psionics for this exercise, cadets. First to three blows wins.” There’s a moment of silence after his orders, like he’s giving you a moment to absorb them. And with good reason- the idea of not using your psionics wasn’t completely foreign as a concept, even in a fight, but you knew that there would be no way for Garrio to win.

You both had the same training, but you had something on your side that Garrio could never have. That you were physically stronger than your peers was one of those unspoken things, only ever seen in the way that nobody has ever tried to take their bullying beyond mocking words and gestures. You never tried to show that strength to your peers, all too aware that it’s part of your otherness that keeps you apart from the rest. But now Crustare was dragging it out for all to see, facing you against the troll who worked the hardest to always keep you down. You’d never see the end of Garrio’s vindictiveness after this, not until you all graduated.

But you couldn’t just throw the fight, either. Because then your instructor would punish both of you for it. And Crustare was smart, he knew every wheel that was turning in your mind, because as he steps back he speaks again. “Full power, Cadet Urvata. Take your positions!”

You felt like you’d had a container of ice water poured over your head, but your body moved even without the control of your mind. You enjoyed weapon fighting, because your psionics were so reliant on the forms you could make and how you could use them. The metal of the practice sword was more solid than any of your constructs, a different and heavier feel in your hand, but you still held it with ease as you shifted your stance. Legs apart, sword-side foot ahead, on the balls of your feet with your knees slightly bent, just the way you’d always been taught. Grip on the sword not too tight, wrist lose, you moved in to a guard position and watched the way Garrio matched you.

She was strong, for her caste, but Garrio was still yellow. The sword that felt so slight to you was heavier for her, and your tormentor had never been that tall of a troll. She was out of her element and you both knew it, but still she persevered. What other choice did she have? Stark refusal could mean getting shipped to the Education Program, and nothing was worth that failure.

So both of you square up, as you’re suddenly aware that with the right strike, you could easily kill her. Your swords were dull but they were still made of metal, and if you hit her in the head, even the chest, too hard… It was a queer sort of feeling, this realization. But you knew you didn’t want to kill her.

“Begin!” Crustare snapped out, and you moved forward instantly. Garrio hesitates only for a moment, but that’s all you need to snake your sword out to meet her’s. It’s not even a fight, when you throw your full force in to it- Garrio isn’t ready for it, and the force of your hit forces her sword and her arm wide. You can see the fear flickering to life in her eyes as she tries to correct, but you still hit her with your downstroke.

Instinct makes you tighten your grip enough to pull the hit, but when the dull side of your sword strikes her shoulder she still cries out at the pain. You should have just disarmed her completely, you chide yourself as she brings her sword back up into a guard position. You don’t want to drag this out, she should have just let go of her weapon instead of forcing herself to keep going-

-but no. Would you ever lay down and surrender? So how could you ask such a thing from Garrio, who had been raised with the same traditions as you? You met her guard, and this time she doesn’t wait for your attack, but presses her own.

You’re used to fighting her with her telekinetics. Every blow in the arena has always been powered somehow, keeping you on edge and worried about what trick would be up their sleeves. But Garrio’s wings have been clipped, and as you move to block her it’s really only the speed of her swordwork that you need to worry about. Your block doesn’t waver under her swing, and instead you push back against her swing.

The ease in which you force her back makes your stomach flip, but your body is moving on some strange mix of instinct and training. She pulls back, disengaging, but she can’t escape the sweep of your blade against her thigh. Even as you pull your strike back the sound of metal making impact with a body is loud, almost as loud as Garrio’s scream as she topples, her weapon dropping with a clatter.

You didn’t feel good about this victory, as you tapped her uninjured shoulder with your blade to count as your third strike. It wasn’t even a battle, not truly, and when you turn from the sight of Garrio huddled on the ground, the rest of your class is looking only at you. It’s a new look, one of dawning comprehension as they all took in what they had just seen. 

And Crustare, who was looking on in something that felt like approval. “Cadet Garrio, get to your feet. That blow wasn’t enough to break anything, soldier up!” He ordered, and you did your best to act as if you couldn’t see her as your classmate rose from the arena. Break something, no, but you hadn’t been able to take all the power from your blows- Garrio would have large bruises, painful ones.

But she didn’t cry out again, even if her jaw was clenched like she wished she could. You both stand there, waiting to be given the command to exit the arena, but after looking the both of you over Crustare simply turns his back on you and addresses the group. “Not every fight in your life is going to be fair, cadets!” He barks out, arms folding behind himself as he watches them all, and you have to force yourself to listen. “You’ll often be outmatched. You might have to work alone, and your opponents will never play fair. They won’t fight the way we do here, and they’ll do whatever they can to make sure you die.”

He pauses, the silence heavy over every one of you. “And sometimes, you’ll find yourself without your psionics, without a gun, with nothing but your wits against opponents that are better than you. Stronger than you, faster than you, and able to take a lot more hits than you. This academy is about teaching you all to face every challenge in your way, and learning to overcome them. You’ll never be able to outmuscle a highblood,” and you hide a wince as so many eyes look towards you, “but you will be able to outwit them.”

“And lucky for us, the Imperial Societal Enforcement has a academy of their own, a bunch of bright eyed and bushy-tailed highblood wrigglers that need more experience interacting with and combating psionics. We’ll be putting the whelps up here for a few perigees, teach them some military training and let them cut their eyeteeth with our latest crops of cadets. We’ll make proper enforcers out of them, while you get the experience with highbloods you all clearly need.” You don’t even count for highblood experience, you think moodily. Whatever you were, you were never enough of it to make anyone happy, were you?

It was a sulky, pupaish thought, and you have to squash it down and pay attention. This was all important to learn, because even if you were (or weren’t) a highblood, you’d never really fought against anyone near your own caste. And Societal Enforcement meant Indigos, proper Mirthful trolls with voodoos. You hadn’t been near another clown since… Since before the time you always tried your best to forget.

“The higher-ups think it helps build respect between branches. If you graduate,” if, because it was never a definite thing, “you might find yourself working with Societal Enforcement on jobs from time to time. Our jurisdictions overlap, and every situation is different. We’re even enough in ranking in the eyes of our Dread Empress, long may she reign, that things can get sticky. Best they get to respecting you now, as half-grown wrigglers beating them, so they can give you respect if you’re a soldier assigned to a mission that they come sniffing at.”

You want to ask why Crustare had felt the need to make an example out of you, if there were whole classes of highbloods on the way, but you felt like you probably had a good idea about why. Preparation was always key, and he didn’t want your class to be blind-sided by the strength of these new trolls. You just wish there had been another way he could have done it, selfish as that thought feels right now. You’d just done as you had been told, and if Garrio would probably never forgive you for any of this…

Well, soon you wouldn’t be the only highblood around the Campus. Soon there would be others, probably more worrying for your class than you had ever been. The Instructors would probably be hovering about constantly, making sure no tensions escalated, but just seeing painted Mirthful faces would probably be enough to unsettle plenty of your class even before they used their chucklevoodoos.

“Garrio, I want you to head for the infirmary. Make sure nothing in your shoulder is broken,” Instructor Crustare finally turns back to you, and you force yourself to stand at attention as Garrio heads out of the arena. You can tell the way she’s favoring the leg you’d struck, and you can just imagine the damage that would have been done with live steel or your psionics, razor sharp and tearing the skin.

“And the rest of you, I want to see you in groups. No psionics! I want to see the skills I hear from your other instructors, when you aren’t just wasting all your panpower on your sparks! Recruit Urvata, get down here, you’re our test squeakbeast for the night. By the end of this lesson, all of you are going to know what to expect from our incoming guests.” You hop down from the arena nimbly, hesitating only for a moment when you land before you offer the sword in your hand to your Instructor as your class dissolves in to pairs. Quickly, no one wanted to be the lone prey for Crustare… And by extension, you.

Your Instructor takes the sword with a sharp nod, and you’re raising your arm to salute him when his hand lands heavy on your shoulder, startling you with the weight of it. But you don’t shy away from your Instructor as he takes a long look at you. He seems like he’s searching for something, but whatever it is you think he finds it when he finally pulls back.

“Good work, Cadet. Tough work, but necessary. You’ve been wearing the kidskin gloves with your group for long enough. Told them forever ago that you needed opponents you could actually hit.” It almost feels like Crustare is speaking some other language, one only vaguely familiar to you. But it was positive, you think. “Thank you, sir,” you tell him because it feels like something you should be thanking him for. Even if you weren’t sure why just yet.

“Maybe you’ll make some friends in this batch coming in. Always good to have some castemates around, help you keep some perspective. Nothing your classmates can handle, but the Societal Enforcement wrigglers, you might have a chance,” he tells you, and you wonder if this is some trap. But before you can reply, or ask what he means, your Instructor’s attention snaps back to the group. “Anxium, get up here! You’re up next with Urvata. You saw what Garrio failed at, use it and figure out a plan of attack!”

You could handle this, you think as you step back in to the arena. Even if you leave the class leaving bruises on all of your classmates, they couldn’t hate you more than they already do. And the Societal Enforcement trolls seem like they might, at last, offer you something that the other Scimitar recruits never had: friendship.

It would just fall on you to try and obtain it. Instructor Crustare seemed to think it would be vital to you, and you trust your Instructor. Even if his lessons were harsh, there was always reason behind them.

It was just a matter of understanding it.


	8. Wishes- 6.5 Sweeps

If you had ever thought that things in the academy could be tense, all your experiences paled in comparison to the mood of your campus the moment the cadets from Societal Enforcement had stepped foot on the grounds.

You’d all been assembled in the parade grounds to greet them, as the ship labeled with the ISE emblem landed to let the trolls disembark. The mood even then had been stilted, every troll in that ship seen as an outsider, something that didn’t belong. They weren’t your enemies, sure, but they also weren’t a part of Scimitar. They were a rival branch, everyone knew that even if your Instructors never gave a name to it. They didn’t have to voice that you were expected to outperform these interlopers, because you all already knew it. Any cadet that made your academy look like a fool in front of this other school would never live it down, for your Instructors or their classmates.

So you all stood at attention, like it was the Empress coming down those ship steps instead of the rows of ISE recruits. It was two rows, and the colors of their uniforms were so jarring against the lowblood hues all around you. The lowest was still teal, and the highest… They were Indigo, like you.

No, not like you. Because every indigo uniform was paired with face paint, a sea of different designs. You didn’t know how to label the feelings you felt, looking at them as they looked back, taking in your classes for their first time. You wonder what it was they saw, looking at you. Did they just see a bunch of lowbloods, elevated in their status by the Corps? Did they actually see you as rivals or just trumped up trolls that society so often told them they were above?

You felt the first eyes land on you and catch there, but you didn’t waver a moment, standing at attention as they passed. You were used to standing out, you reminded yourself as more and more of the Societal Enforcement trolls spotted you. You’d started to outgrow a lot of your fellow cadets, even with their extra two sweeps of age, and you’d always been broader. And out of all the other cadets, your uniform was the only one with indigo piping. The only one among this whole academy over olive.

They had to wonder why you were there, among the Scimitars, when you should have been with them above anything. Societal Enforcement was taught the laws of troll-kind more than any other school, all the bits that made your Empire run efficiently. They even had classes on quadrants, the very idea so foreign to you that it was nearly appalling. They rooted out deviancy in all its forms, not just straight up rebellion like the Corps so often did.

It meant they had a lot more boring lives though, in your opinion. You couldn’t imagine having to worry about giving trolls quadrant counselling, or any of those other sides that Societal Enforcement so often involved themselves in. You were perfectly happy just being a soldier like you had been raised.

But your curiosity had ignited, looking upon the rows of highbloods. There were some other blues mixed with the teals, cobalts and ceruleans, but the indigo side was one solid caste. Of course it was, they were true Mirthful, there to serve as the Church and paired with the Law, the way tradition had always had it. And they were here to learn a bit about your way of living, to get experience with fighting with lowbloods who knew what they were doing in a fight. With psionics, and you quietly wondered how many of them you could actually want to socialize with a Scimitar outside of classes. How many might actually want to be your friend.

The thought unleashed an ache in your chest that’s always been there, but that you’ve grown to accept. None of your classmates wanted to be around you, because you were different. Maybe, just maybe, one of the Societal Enforcement trolls could overlook that.

You could wish.

“Open up, half-caste,”

Wishes, it turned out, didn’t always come true. You set your jaw as you looked up into the painted face of one Maccus Jubili, meeting the strobing glow of his eyes without flinching. “I am,” you tell him, and you grit your teeth when some of your frustration leaked into the words. You were so used to being put down by your classmates, why was it so much worse when it came from other highbloods?

Maybe it was the way they did it. None of your classmates had ever attacked the fact that you had psionics when you shouldn’t, not really. No one wanted to act like psi was something to be ashamed of in an academy full of it! But teal to indigo, it seemed like none of the Societal Enforcement trolls could give up calling you a sparkplug. Or a half-caste, once they’d spotted your gills above the collar of your uniform.

Half-caste was about the worst insult you’d ever faced, you think. It stung every time they labeled it with you, and suddenly the one thing you’d always known you were, despite everything, was being taken away. You were an indigo, even if you weren’t Mirthful like Jubili. Even if you didn’t have voodoos, like you should.

Instructor Ammonere was busy further down the line, distracted by another pairing, and Professor Deadhook seemed likewise occupied. So you felt brave enough to lean forward, just a bit, your voice a hiss under the sounds of your fellow recruits under the throes of chucklevoodoos. “Maybe you just are not strong enough to voodoo me,” you snap out, and part of you is ashamed that you’ve allowed yourself to be so affected by Jubili’s words.

You’re supposed to be better than this, but instead you just feel smug when the glow of his eyes fades and shows darkening sclera. The sight of them is jarring for a second, the absolute lapse of control- you hadn’t flashed orange at anyone since you were five sweeps, and that had been a horrible mistake. The punishment was never worth the anger, but you’ve forgotten that despite the fact that this troll wasn’t that much older than you, he had been raised much differently.

“I’ll show you strong, slurryspoil,” he snarls at you, and you almost want to shrink back at the venom in his voice. Maybe you would, but then he turns his voodoos back on, the strobing indigo only a few hues off from the pinker heliotrope of your psionics.

You can feel him, faintly, both similar to psionics and completely different. Your horns pick up psionics like a vibration in the air, always near the tips and then traveling down them. Chucklevoodoos, and other psychics, they were just a steady pressure at the base of your horns. It dug in through the velvet, insistent and impossible to ignore, but for you that was it. The two groups closest to you had turned to watch, both of your fellow Scimitar reflecting the fear Jubili had to be broadcasting.

But training kept them in their tracks, even if their limbs were rigid with the emotions being forced on them. The clown to your left finally laughs, a honking sound as she crosses her arms. “T’fuck’s th’matter, brother?” She calls, and you remind yourself that she’s talking to Jubili, not you. Being around so many ‘brothers’ was uncovering old wounds you had tried your best to forget.

What was her name again? Arduus Celsaa, you believe. She was the tallest of all of you, like someone had taken a regular troll and stretched her out until she was taller than your Instructor. It made her look so deceptively frail, her paint only making her face look even more gaunt, but you knew better. All of her class seemed to always defer to her, seeking her approval every time they made a joke. She was a power in the making, you thought, and had done your best to avoid her attention because of it.

For all the good it’d done you now, since her eyes have slid from Jubili and landed on you, her grin stretched wide. “Can’t handle y’self one lil spark?” She taunts, and something in you sinks even as Jubili lifts his chin and sneers at her. “I ain’t seeing you doing it, sis.” He calls back, and you wish they’d be quieter. “Gonna talk shit, you gotta have the walk to back it up.”

“Ain’t gotta do shit,” Celsaa jeers back, straightening up and making you suddenly aware of just how tall she really was, this close. “Didn’t get my ass stuck w’him. Prof’ll be wicked steamed, y’go and let a spark show y’up.” Her eyes catch on the indigo trim of your uniform, and her grin curls to show fang. “‘S jus’ a low-minded reject. Deal w’it.”

Jubili murmurs something under his breath that you don’t hear, but you have a feeling it’s better that you didn’t. The insults hurt, and you want to yell at them that you didn’t choose to be different, you’d never asked for it. It burns in your lungs and it’s been so long since you’ve felt like this that the resurgence of long-buried emotions made you feel ill. You didn’t belong with your classmates, you didn’t belong with the highbloods. Where were you supposed to belong, then? Why couldn’t you have someone, anyone, who would just like you as you were?

The sadness sat in your gut, but when Jubili finally sneered at you again and you could feel his voodoos pressing in again, it started to turn in to anger. It was a heat in your veins, thick and ugly, but you couldn’t press it back. You know it wasn’t from Jubili, or any of the other Mirthful- this was all you, and you hated it. You hated them.

You could give them a reason to hate you, a voice in your pan piped up. Why shouldn’t you? If you used the excuse that it was under the influence of voodoos, you might get away with hitting him. Others of your class had lashed out, at first, before they’d been reined back. You could hit him, hard, and you could just get a warning over it. They liked hurting you, shouldn’t they hurt too? It’s a tempting thought, for a moment. But then sense takes over, reminds you that hitting him would do nothing. All it would do was show you could be worked up, and the moment they thought they could do that… You’d never get any peace.

So you square your shoulders up and kept your face smooth, even as Jubili’s twisted as he kept trying to force a reaction from you. You were prepared to stay there all night, if that was what you had to do. But just as you think it, a shadow falls over you and Jubili’s face falls in front of you. So you look up… And up.

Professor Deadhook is one of those Indigos that just goes on forever, but unlike Celsaa they have mass to them. They’re intimidating, from the curly length of their horns that have to span at least three feet to the tips of their curled shoes. Looking up at them, you felt like a pupa. How was it, you wonder, to be so tall?

They move forward, closer to you. The movement sends their earrings clattering, and when you look at them you realize that Deadhook has their ears pierced with horn ornament, the keratin clicking against each other with a sound that’s instinctively disquieting. “Aww now, cadets,” they drawl out, voice musical in a way that tugs at lost memories. “I know we ain’t be comin this far out for y’all to get your chatter on. Started my way over here, all up and thinkin I felt some wicked voodoos, what kind of joke do I find?”

You aren’t sure how much power the Societal Enforcement teachers have on Scimitar recruits, but you have a feeling that they’re allowed enough freedom to make anyone regret crossing them. But you aren’t one of their cadets, and you think most of their lecture is aimed at Jubili and Celsaa, who both look some measure of contrite and upset at the same time.

“‘S not our fault,” Celsaa tries to argue, and even as Deadhook’s look silences her you can’t believe she has the gall to argue. None of your Instructors would ever, ever let you even think of talking back to them!

“If I wanted to listen to you spew filth, recruit, I’da ask how that essay for Religious Law was coming along,” Deadhook says, but there’s an edge to the joke that keeps all of you silent. “Ain’t I done my duty as your professor? Ain’t I worked my fingers to the bone, spat so many words that my rattlereeds have dried up and cracked, just to try and impart some of my knowledge, my messiahs-given insight, onto you wretches? Tried to do my best to make sure you little chucklefucks could do something as motherfucking simple as subjugate your enemies?”

Your mouth is dry, and you’re beginning to wish you could just disappear right now. Melt away into nothing, just so people would stop looking at you, hating on you for something you were or weren’t. “He’s a fish,” Jubili finally says, and it feels like a slap. But even as he says it, he’s tossing his chin up, hooked horns raking the air like it’s a challenge. You hate it, you hate it, you hate it.

The rattle that comes from you surprises you, it’s such a deep ugly sound. Raw and scratchy, it makes your rattlereeds flex in ways that’s so unfamiliar it almost aches. It gets Jubili and Celsaa both watching you though, gazes guarded like you’re some sort of animal. The shame is a slow burn up your throat, threatening to suffocate you, before Deadhook does something unexpected.

They laugh, the noise loud and booming enough that you take a step away from them on instinct, suddenly too aware of how close this large, dangerous troll was to you. They don’t laugh long at least before they’re suddenly slouching down towards you. To punish you, you assume immediately, and force yourself to stay in place for the blow that must be coming. You’d already failed once, you refused to be such a poor example of your academy to not take a correction properly.

But instead fingers hooked under your jaw, claws angled thoughtfully away from your skin. They tip your chin up, fingertips just warmer than your body temperature but feeling like a brand. You swallow under their gaze, adult eyes that scan your face before they tip your head to the side and their gaze drops to your neck. To your gills, you realize, and then when they angle your head away further, it must be to look at the scars along the very back of your ears, still fresh enough that they still held on to the pigment of your blood.

It’s mortifying, being examined like this. Your hands ball into fists, just to try and keep the tremor from them as Deadhook hums a low note. “Ain’t never heard a joke this raucous, a half-caste that sparks,” they say, and finally their fingers leave your skin. You lower your chin, but that’s all you can do no matter what you wish you could do- you just want to escape this whole situation. But you couldn’t. “Messiahs come up with all sorts of miracles, chucklefucks,” they say, but they’re looking back towards Jubili and Celsaa again. It’s small comfort, but you’ll take what you can get.

“Plenty of the old stories what feature cusps,” they continue as they straighten up. “Told the Archduke that there’s too much motherfucking law in your courses, ain’t leaving enough time for what’s really important in the end for you clowns. Fucking lawstiffs always go thinking we can fit it all in at Carnival, like your pans are scuttlebuggies and my words’re all just the fools what’s got to go cramming in there. Like they want to go and drain the mirth from your bones, some nights. Well I’m in charge these perigees, so we’ll have to fix that.”

You don’t feel like you should be hearing any of this, and it’s a relief when you spot Instructor Ammonere coming towards you, body set like she’s ready to go to war. “Is everything alright over here, Professor?” She asks, words brisk and clipped like she’s expecting a confrontation. Out of all of you, you think tensions were the highest amongst the adults.

But Deadhook just rolls their shoulders back and gives her a smile, absolutely dismissive. “Nah,” they purr out, and one of their massive hands lands on Jubili’s shoulder. “You gone and paired my boy here with a troll what can’t be voodoo’d. Ain’t no learning to be done on a pan what can’t really feel the fear, they’re too young to go building that sort of power. Not without up and cracking his pan open, ain’t the sort of sight any of us want to go and see.”

Ammonere’s gaze is so cold, you’re sure it would freeze a lesser troll in place. But Deadhook is no lesser troll,and they meet her gaze with the sort of ease that comes with knowing they were better than Ammonere. Your Instructor was just a teal in comparison, and if you had to guess, she was younger. It’s a battle she couldn’t win, and she accepts it with as much grace as she can muster.

“Cadet Urvata. You’ll be another set of eyes then, watch the groups and cry out if you see any extreme use of voodoos or any sign of lashing out. This isn’t supposed to be a course on defending yourself against psychics, or a chance for any clowns to get their blows in now while they can.” That last part was a jab at Deadhook, and you all know it. But the clown just laughs it off, and when Ammonere’s lip thin you hurry to salute her. “Yes, ma’am.”

It’s not much of a distraction, but a flurry of movement further down the line pulls both the adult’s attention. Ammonere pulls away to head to de-escalate whatever event is brewing, and Deadhook pauses only long enough to give you one last appraising look before they jerk their head at Jubili. “C’mon, boy. Tonight you’re on watchout duty too. Gonna have to all plan a schedule out, fucking even groups ain’t taking into account any fucking surprises, sorriest fucking punchline I ever lay bulb on…”

They’re still talking as they move away, and Jubili hesitates only long enough to give you a look of angry disdain before he’s dogging at their heels. You take a few steps back from the line and as the rest of the group falls back in to practice, you have to work to compose yourself. This wasn’t the end of anything, of any of the bullying or the insults that would be used against you. You’d have to deal with them all, and if they were anything like your classmates, it would only get worse before it got better.

But there was only a few perigees of this, you remind yourself. And despite the reactions of two of the clowns, they were only a small portion of the entire group. Maybe you would have better luck with the lower blues, where religion wasn’t a factor in their hatred.

Maybe it was stupid, to try and convince yourself otherwise. But standing where you were, once again outcast from the main class because of something you could never help, you needed to wish for something nice.

Because sometimes, it felt like your dreams were the only thing that kept you sane.


	9. Mysterious- 6.7 Sweeps

One of the first rules you’d been taught when you arrived in the Academy was that knowledge was the key to everything. When you were surrounded by strange trolls, talking in strange tongues that had never made any sense, you had been forced to learn. It had never been an easy road, and you’d struggled in a world you couldn’t understand. You’d been punished every time you couldn’t answer, if you disobeyed rules that you didn’t know.

It had seemed cruel back then, but you had learned the mysteries of your new world. Slowly at first, but then it had all slid into place and you knew the words that were being barked at you, knew how to speak back. Sloppily at first, your first language still clinging to your tongue, but the more you had practiced the better you were. Until you instinctively spoke with your mouth instead of your throat and forced the rolling lilt of your voice in to something flatter. The more you knew, the better you did, and the punishments turned to praise instead that you had always wanted.

Now, you knew you were always near the top of the classes. Every quarter-sweep, the Instructors would post up the rankings of students and you could always count on seeing your name near the top if not at it, the shock of your indigo so easy to pick out among the more typical colors of the Academy. Pride was a dangerous thing, but you felt some accomplishment every time your hard work shone through for the rest of your peers to see, to force them to acknowledge you if only for a few moments outside of class.

Of course, none of their attention was ever positive. You kept your chin up against any of the slurs tossed at you in the halls, the hard looks and the comments always given at your back, when the instructors weren’t close enough to overhear. Teacher’s Pet, Dog, Wader, Coldie, you’d been called it all over the sweeps. Accusations that you were given better treatment than anyone else because of your blood, that the Instructors were told to always grade you high, you had borne the brunt of it all as serenely as you could.

Even as the sweeps went on, and the age gap between you and your peers showed more and more, developing in to proper young adults, you had always worked to keep up. Their comments had only morphed over the sweeps, and you remember being confused the first time someone had hinted that you were earning your grades in other ways with the instructors- and the burn of shame that had come with that knowledge, even though you knew there was no truth to their barbs. They only ever wanted to tear you down, they reveled in your failure, and the only thing you could do against them was refuse to give them the satisfaction they craved.

Some nights, it was harder than others. Some nights were like tonight, when Instructor Crustare felt that you all needed more practice in engaging actual enemies rather than the usual holograms and technology the Academy was equipped with. Crustare was one of the oldest Instructors, one of the ones closest to you in chrome- the piping of his Instructor uniform was a deep navy, matching the single eye that always seemed sharper than ten pairs when it came to finding mistakes in form. No one really knew how old he was, because no one dared ask an Instructor such a useless question, but everyone could see the fine lines that creased his skin near his lips and spread in cawbeast’s feet at the edges of his eyes.

He was a veteran, retired from the frontlines to come and teach you all how to fight. You’d always liked him, not only because he was almost like you, but because you think he was fond of you. He picked you the most as a volunteer to show the class new moves, and even though his praise was always gruff he never seemed to hesitate to give it to you. Of course it didn’t impede him when you messed up and needed punishment, but he was always fair with that too.

But he had told you all time and time again that no soldier had ever been raised solely on holograms. No ‘hunk of scrap metal’ had ever been able to imitate the unpredictability of an actual enemy on the field, let alone demonstrate the wide variety of skills that psionics could possess. If a machine could have telekinetics, he had once joked, what use would they have for helms?

So sometimes he’d get two classes together out here in the demonstration arena, and he’d have you fight. No holds barred, save that it always ended on first blood, and you always anticipated and dreaded the nights you arrived to the training gym just to be told you were heading for the Arena. There was always something so poetic in watching your classmates test themselves against one another, to actually get to see your training put to use the way it would for real some night. In using your own abilities even it was always to first blood before the fight ended.

Except that being the other in your group has never served you well when it was time to spar. You’d long ago given up on the idea that you’d ever be friendly with any of your peers, but it never stopped the utter sense of being outcast when you stepped into the arena. The way everyone watching would cheer on your opponent like they were Theseus descending into the Labyrinth to slay the Minotaur, how you felt their exuberation every time you lost.

You tried to tell yourself it didn’t matter. None of them mattered, but it had always rung hollow. So instead you leaned in to the pettiness of their games, and you trained even harder to make sure that you would always disappoint them. You weren’t perfect, but you always won more times than you lost. You were hoping to continue that score as you stepped into the arena tonight, ignoring the rumbling of the class to focus on your opponent.

Crustare didn’t believe in silencing the classes when there was a fight. A battle was rarely silent, he’d instructed, and if you couldn’t keep yourself from getting distracted from the jeers, what good were you? But your opponent seemed bolstered by knowing everyone was on his side, preening like he was on a stage. You knew him, but only in passing- Colafi Pugnus, uncommon for being an oliveblooded psionic. He was a construct psionic, like you, but far more limited in his scope.

That didn’t mean you were overconfident, though. He had at least two sweeps on you, and his constructs always took on the form of thin lines, sharp as any razor. He was already drawing his psionics up as you both waiting for Crustare to begin the match, the murky green of his eyes bleeding in to glaring orange as he tossed his head, throwing horns to a scattered cheer of the crowd.

You refused to respond to it, keeping your face neutral as you let the world flicker in to heliotrope. You’d seen Colafi’s other fights, knew he liked to strike hard and fast to get his fights over quickly. All the better to crow about his success, you thought bitterly, and then forced yourself to let the emotions fade out. You focused on Colafi and the power thrumming in your veins, mind abuzz with possibilities as you waited.

“Begin!”

That was the crack of Crustare’s voice, never with any warning before it began- you had to react purely on instinct, raising a arm as your psionics flared in to form. A typical kite shield would be heavy, a burden, but your psionics were just a slight pressure against your arm, brought up just in time to block the fiery orange thread of psionics that came whipping towards your cheek. Stupid, a voice in the back of your mind scoffed as your psionics cracked against each other, friction you could feel in your horns. He wanted to mark you in a way visible to everyone, for everyone to mock-

-you forced the thought away before it could fester, working to disrupt the lance of psionics. It crumpled easily with a push, but it was never meant to last. Two more lashed out at you, but you had the advantage. Colafi’s psionics, for whatever reason, were a rigid form- he couldn’t wrap them around your shield to strike past it. You knew if you let him keep up the assault, he would smash through the shield, but you weren’t going to play defense.

You shove your shield forward and to the side in a connection that sets your teeth on edge, but allows you to parry them to the side to throw a slice of your own psionics back at Colafi, a wide slice with the edges dulled just enough that if you hit, it wouldn’t bite too deeply in to him. But he twisted away instead, a beam of his orange wire catching your blow- so you let it shatter instead, twenty pieces scattering across the arena, making him duck and dodge to avoid them.

This is the sort of split focus that you’ve been working so hard on. You have to raise your hand behind your temple behind your shield, the psimudra helping you hone in on those scattered shards as Colafi recovers himself to launch another assault. It’s a familiar ache to you now to split your focus so far, but as he launches out at you he doesn’t pay attention to the scattered pieces of your last construct, clearly confident that the threat had been neutralized.

Foolish, you think again, as his next hit splinters your shield. You lift the five nearest shards of your construct, and you strike out at him while he’s so focused on your movements.

The sight of olive trickling down his cheek is so pettily satisfying, you’re already chastising yourself for it as his psionics flicker out. Your shield disintegrates with it, but you let the rest of your constructs fade away as your hands drop to your side. Psifights were almost always quick, but it still felt like it had lasted forever as your head throbbed.

Around you, the class was silent. Crustare encouraged the heckling during a fight, but after it was over disapproval over the result would always result in discipline. Instead the silence of their contempt settled in as you dropped yourself out of the ready pose you’d pulled together, letting yourself relax.

But Colafi hasn’t let his psionics go, even as his hand lifted to streak his blood across his face. He pulled his fingers back like he almost couldn’t believe it, stiff with shock- shock that morphed so quickly in to outrage, fingers flickering with orange as he pulled it back-

“Recruit Pugnus!”

Crustare’s voice is loud, but it doesn’t muffle the crack of flesh meeting flesh. You don’t know how your Instructor got there so quickly, your shock making time seem so impossibly quick, but Colafi is sprawled out on the arena floor, quaking as he holds his face where Crustare had hit him. Your Instructor is standing tall over him, and even though you knew you weren’t the focus on his anger your blood still ran cold with the realization of what had happened.

A fight was over on first blood. You never, never tried to strike again when that hit had been taken. The silence of your class takes on the same dread you felt, but you all knew better than to turn your eyes away as your Instructor nudged Colafi with the toe of his boot. “Did I tell you you could take a rest, Recruit?” Crustare barked, and it will never stop being terrifying, the way your instructors could switch from teaching to this other side. Colafi’s face was blanched save for the spreading welt of olive across their cheek, but he scrambled to his feet and forced himself to stand at attention.

“No, Sir!” Your stomach churned at the sight you were so close to, and you could only wish you’d remain invisible to your angered Instructor as he stared down your classmate.

“Did I not make the instructions of this exercise clear?”

“No, Sir!”

“Did you think you were better than the rest of our classes, of our recruits, that you don’t have to listen to my orders!?”

“No, Sir!”

Discipline was a cruel necessity of your world, but it never meant you liked to witness it. Even if your classmates sometimes took satisfaction in the way the Instructors would dress you down when you made a mistake, you’d never had a taste for it. You just felt clammy as it went on, retreating into yourself as Crustare kept barking questions- Was Colafi just an idiot, did he know what he was doing, wasn’t he useless, did he know why they even bothered to keep him around? And Colafi gave him a ‘No, sir’ for every one he gave, trying to maintain some semblance of his composure. The less you broke, the better it would be.

“Do you think Recruit Urvata would do something like that?” Crustare saying your name makes you straighten up instinctively, eyes staring straight ahead- towards your Instructor and Colafi, who seemed to be looking through you. Still, he hesitated for a split second before his next ‘no’, and Crustare sank his claws into the weakness, leaning down into Colafi’s face. “He wouldn’t, because he’s actually worth a damn, would he?”

You don’t want to be a part of this, but you have no choice. And neither does Colafi when he keeps looking ahead and tells Crustare the words he wants to hear. “No, Sir.” Crustare stares at him a little longer, keeping him on the tenderhooks, before he finally pulls back with that low sound of disgust he usually reserves for talk of rebels. “Waste of space. Waste of the fucking funds we use to keep your ass alive, the food we feed you. Probably going to get yourself gutted the first mission we actually send you on, and then we won’t even get the funds we’d get if we shipped your ass off to the Education Program. Get running! I want you doing laps until I can stand the sight of you again!”

Colafi takes off like a bolt, eager to be free of Crustare’s fury even if it meant running laps. He’d run until every bit of him hurts, you know that all too well, but you reminded yourself that it was a lesson. A soldier can’t lose their head, they can’t disobey orders the way he had. Now, every time he thought about it, he’d remember tonight. He’s not fast enough to miss the crack of Crustare’s cuff across the back of his horns, but Colafi doesn’t make another sound as he races off and leaves you alone with your Instructor.

You’d rather be anywhere but where you were, but you weren’t in trouble. You hadn’t done anything wrong, you repeat like a mantra, and Crustare jerks his chin at you, switch thrown once more. Back to the intimidating but fair troll you respected so much. “Good work with the multiple constructs, Urvata. Smart. Keep it up. Now clear the field! Recruits Sunnie, Grifyl, get up here!”

You gave him a salute before you forced yourself off the arena on wooden legs. The praise you would usually be so proud of was curdling in your mind tonight, and you watched with sightless eyes as two others took the arena to start their fight. The rest of the classes didn’t even throw you their usual barbs, everyone shaken after the display of your Instructor’s fury, and you all stayed quiet through the rest of the spars, until it was time to head for your next class.

As a group, you all turned your back on where Colafi was still running, and you left him to toil in his mistake. You would have preferred everyone nettling at you if it meant he could have been smart enough to keep his cool, but you know better. He’d failed all on his own, and Instructor Crustare had done what he had to do.

Just like when you were first learning the language, you repeated that to yourself over and over again. Until you believed it.


	10. Noise- 6.9 Sweeps

Every part of you hurt, as the mediculler left the room, but even the pain couldn’t block out the marrow-deep shame you felt as the door clicked shut.

If only it had. If only you could be anything than what this had no doubt labeled you as- a failure, unsuitable to your task and best to be discarded before your weakness cost other trolls.There was still a purple haze over your sight, but you didn’t know if it was still psionics of the blood that had sprung up to replace it when you had pushed harder and something in you had snapped.

You understood burnout, from your lessons. You had poured over the textbooks, the stages- the flaws that came with psionics that could lead to their deaths. How psychic, highblooded brains had grown slowly to be optimized for their abilities which made them so much more stable. You had always known that you had hatched different, the way that highbloods were never supposed to. But despite how sometimes training gave you a bloody nose or a headache, you’d thought that perhaps your brain was still built as hardy as it should have been if you were normal.

Until tonight. You hadn’t thought it was any different than any other night that you had psionic classes, when your class had gotten to the gym. Ryptid had been eager to show your Instructor how hard they had been practicing their control, and you had been caught up in the excitement that your classmates had been riding high on, even if they were always careful to exclude you. But the end was in sight for your class, graduation night on the horizon keeping you all going no matter how much more brutal your lessons were getting.

The Final Polish, the instructors had joked. One last test to make sure you all had what it took to be true Scimitars, instead of just recruits. And you had failed.

Failure always sat hard on you, but this was crushing. So much had always been expected of you, as you were told time and again every time an instructor had to dole out discipline for a mistake. Their disappointment had always stung as much as the actual punishment be it the reduced rations or extra miles to run, even the lash. You’d never gotten bitter over their treatment like some of your classmates, who would complain about this Instructor or that. Sonora was loud enough for everyone in his whining, and you’d seen what had happened to him when Instructor Acerbius had caught him telling Garrio that he was too harsh.

If you complained, the Instructors would give you something much worse to complain about. If you had the energy to whine, you had heard time and time again, you had the energy to work. And ever since, Sonora had jumped to Instructor Acerbius’ orders like his life depended on it. Everything the Instructors did, they did with reason- and if they were harsh, it was only to prepare you. Your enemies would make you long for a night serving punishments in the academy, if you ever slipped up.

Unless tonight had been the hammer that had cracked you in to too many pieces to ever recover from. There was wetness in your eyes, a hitch to your chest that you forced your lungs to work past as you assured yourself that you were just still bleeding. You weren’t a pupa, to cry about your own failure. Even if you were going to be tossed out with the rest of the trolls that just weren’t good enough, you would show that you could hold on to some of what they had taught you. It was your psionics that hadn’t measured up, not the rest of you.

Your breath hitches again as you think of the manuals you had read, even a brochure from the Imperial Education Program- the Scrap-Heap, some of you called it. But they wouldn’t even take you if you had burnt yourself out completely, would they? You’d read over the sort of things they would give out to any curious troll, had read about their different programs even if the Helming division was the only one you had ever heard mentioned. The words ‘inherently inefficient’ were burnt in to your mind as you read the differences between the lowblooded psionics and highblooded psychics.

Only now you felt that the jeers that you were low-minded had been more truthful than you had ever wanted to believe they could be. You’d been so sure that your barrier could have been thicker, and it had all shattered as your pan betrayed you and failed. Maybe, if you were a weaker troll, you could blame it on the steroids you had been given. Scimitar soldiers needed to know how to use them in the field, so you had been given them in slowly strengthening dosages the last sweep along with the rest of your class. The thrill of them, of feeling like you could have taken on the world and won, seems so far away now.

The sound of your sniffle is loud in the otherwise silent room, and it feels like needles in your pan. More blood, you tell yourself, feeling the drying trail of it along your upper lip. How happy your class must be, to get rid of you like this. You don’t even know how long it’s been since you broke, you’d been so pathetic that you had even passed out in front of the entire class. That you were even in what you thought was the infirmary was a kindness you weren’t even sure you deserved, not any longer.

Every second they left you alone in the room felt like a torture, though. More than the nights you had spent in a mock prison, forced in to uncomfortable positions for hours and hours in an attempt to make you forget all of your training. You would have made a good soldier, you wanted to wail. You would have been the best, you were so sorry that you just hadn’t been hatched good enough for anything.

Time slid away from you as you dipped in to the circle of ‘just not good enough’. Would they take your fingers from you, if you were burnt out? You didn’t need stabilizers without psionics, you reasoned. Maybe they would give them to someone better, even if they were big. Dextra was two sweeps older and even his were smaller, and he was the next biggest troll to you width-wise. But maybe there would be an adult that needed a replacement, the way you had so many times until you had learned how to cushion your hands with psi when you were hitting something.

The thoughts drained from your pan though when you first caught the sound of something outside your door. You nearly held your breath so the noise of it wouldn’t distract you from what was clearly voices, but it seems like your efforts would have been in vain as shadowy shapes appeared through the window on your door. The light from the hallway hurt your eyes, but it didn’t stop you from looking desperately at the shadowed forms as if knowing who it was that was there for you might change your fate.

Not that it mattered, since neither their forms or the shape of their horns through the window struck you as familiar. The door started to open and you felt your lungs still again- but it remained cracked, held there as what could only be a continued argument re-erupted in front of you. Confused, you laid as still as you could and hoped that tempers wouldn’t turn on you as you listened.

“-He was far too young for these amounts of steroids, Bloodweb,” is the first voice, and the sharpness in the brisk tones has you nervous even without it being directed at you. “He’s as big as any adult, Dissolve. The rest of his class didn’t have these complications, Instructor Crustare was diligent in recording the dosages.” The second troll spoke, and now that you know they must be speaking about you, the dismissal in their voice doesn’t soothe your worry. “The rest of his class has two sweeps on him, and the highest of them is Olive. If you’d take your head out of your ass long enough to actually read any papers, you’d know that the few documented cases we have on the psionic growth of highbloods shows that they take a lot longer to mature the same pathways that lowbloods gain so early.”

That’s news to you, but the libraries hadn’t had much on any trolls like you. All you knew is that you should have had chucklevoodoos, like the other indigos, and you didn’t. You fist your fingers in to the sheets under you, waiting for more, and thankfully you didn’t have to wait long. “So he’s just too young and delicate for sedatives?” Bloodweb asks, and the scoff in their voice is loud enough to carry. “This class is three perigees out from their final testing. What kind of soldier can’t take enhancers when they need them? At least when we get the sparkplug teals, they have the decency to drag them in later.”

You wonder if they’ve forgotten that the door is open, or if they just don’t care that you could be awake to hear this. Either way you’re concerned about finding the answer, so you stay as quiet as you can as you listen, your breath hot against your teeth as you breathe through your mouth instead of your blood-filled nose.

“Well I don’t know what the Instructors thought they were going to do with him, but he’s too much of a risk for a proper battery. Recruit Urvata isn’t even seven sweeps yet, is he? No battery I can think of is going to want a member they feel they need to jademind, they have enough trouble with the regular greenhorns.” That’s still Bloodweb, and you wonder why exactly the troll you thought had been defending you has gone quiet. The barb over your age stings, but it’s a familiar one no matter what you do to prove you’re just as mature as the rest of your class. You did all the same work, you reasoned- you’d always pushed yourself so hard, harder than the rest to make up for your age. When you had first arrived, you hadn’t even spoken Standard. Now, you were usually always near the top of your class in every subject.

But now, that wasn’t enough. If you didn’t know that you were going to be tossed out for being burnt out, that would hurt more than it does. It’s a hollow comfort, that thought. All you had ever wanted was to be a proper Scimitar soldier, with a battery of your own that accepted you.

You flinch when the door finally opens, the shock of light too much for your overworked pan. You want to turn away from it, but despite the screaming of your pan you force yourself to take in both of the trolls as they step into the room.

The shorter one you think must be Bloodweb, since when he sees you’re awake he’s instantly scowling. The symbol stitched in to his lab coat is cerulean, but he must not have any psychic ability if he’s a mediculler like you think. His teeth are a snarl of fangs that he doesn’t hesitate to show in a sneer to his companion, who just ignores him as she looks at a chart she’s holding- your’s, you assume.

“Recruit Urvata, I’m glad you’re awake. How are you feeling?” She asks, and if most of the sharpness is out of her voice the briskness remains. But you’ve learned long ago what’s expected of you when an adult asks you a question, and you respond as quickly as you can. “My pan hurts. The light hurts- I think I am still bleeding from my eyes and nose. Is this stage three burnout?” The last bit is a mistake, but the question flies from you without your prompting. You’re not supposed to make any sort of demands, but she- Dissolve?- don’t take it with as much disdain as any of your Instructors.

“It is. We’re here to give you a look-over, make sure everything is still in one piece. Understood?” The casual way she says it almost shocks you into silence, but training prompts you to answer the question. “Yes, Miss.” Before you even finish she’s moving in closer, pulling on gloves before she pulls out a pen-light. Her fingers are mild against your skin as she tilts your head back, her compassion fading in the moment of her work. The light feels like a laser to your pan, but you know better than to turn away as she investigates both eyes. “Plenty of blown vessels- you’ll be sporting indigo in those eyes for a week. But pupils are responsive, follow the light now.” You don’t want to, but you do as she pulls it to the left and to the right. They were taking care of you. Why were they even bothering?

“Eyes seem to be alright. Pan is still working alright from what I can see. Your nose will dry up soon I’d imagine, and we’ve got something for the discomfort,” Dissolve rattles off as you try to keep up with her, pen-light back in her pocket quickly and replaced with a cup of pills. You feel like you must have blacked out for a moment with the speed she delivers them, but you take them without comment. Any sort of painkillers weren’t usually allowed to you, the Instructors wanted you to learn to deal with discomfort. “Under your tongue, just let them dissolve,” she instructs, and you tuck the chalky capsules in to your mouth a little awkwardly.

They’re somewhat bitter, but with some sort of fruity taste that only seems to highlight the unpleasantness of them as the flavor fills your mouth. You hate to swallow as your mouth fills with saliva, but you know you have no other choice with their eyes on you. Bloodweb still seems unpleased with you, but Dissolve settles back with her chart looking satisfied. And since she was the one taking charge here, you assumed she was the one in charge.

“Instructor Crustare made a report that you burnt out during a steroid output test. Do you remember what happened, Recruit?” She asks, and you have to swallow the rest of the pill substance to answer. “Yes, Ma’am. We administered the steroids as we were taught- I do not think I made an error. Everything felt normal, but then when I tried to push harder like I was supposed to, I,” your traitorous voice cracks, and you don’t think there’s any way that this could have gone worse for you.

You struggle to regain it, forcing your shoulders not to hitch up the way they wanted to- it had been a stupid pupa-ish habit of yours, one you thought you had abandoned sweeps ago. Back when you had thought that you could just hide your fins and be treated normally, before the Instructors had corrected the defensive posture. Soldiers did not hunch, they stood straight. And you had corrected your fins yourself, so there was nothing to hide.

But your pan didn’t seem to agree with you tonight. “I failed,” you finish flatly, and at least you aren’t such a disgrace to your training that you let your emotions show. Dissolve makes a throaty noise, but you can’t quite bring yourself to look at her as you hear the scribble of a pen. “Well Recruit,” she starts as the pen ends, “your pan was just rejecting the steroids. The full dosage was just a bit too much stress on it right now, and trying to force that much psionics out… It was a bit like trying to channel the flow of a firehose through a straw, do you understand?”

“Yes Ma’am,” you answer, and you keep any offense over her simplified explanation to yourself. You didn’t need the pupa example, but it wasn’t your place to complain. Dissolve still looks happy, but you can’t take much pleasure in it. Part of you is just too stuck on their words- you’d be instructed to use the steroids. Why had they told you to burn yourself out? Had they wanted you to be a failure? No, they couldn’t have wanted that. You were supposed to be one of the best, this had to just be a mistake. A horrible, horrible mistake.

That wasn’t much better. Not when it all ended with you in this position. Dissolve sets her chart aside to clasp her hands together, and you swallow again as you focus on the way the white latex pulls tight against her knuckles. Anything to keep down the new flood of emotions that want to rise. You refuse to embarrass yourself any further.

At least Dissolve is unaware of your inner turmoil, as she leans forward. You force yourself to look up and meet her gaze, the cobalt unwavering in them as she looks you over like you’re just a puzzle that needs completing. Even if someone had just tossed the puzzle against the wall. “We’ve already given you something to purge out the rest of the steroids, and you should be more comfortable in a bit. There’s no signs that make us have to worry about anything like a pan-scan to check for damage, but we will keep you here for the day and keep monitoring you. Hopefully by the beginning of the next night, you’ll have enough of your psionics back for us to get a good reading, and then you’ll be rejoining your class- with reduced lessons, of course, until you’re back to full health.”

You don’t quite trust what she says, and you shouldn’t ask that she repeat herself. But there’s a lump in your throat now that won’t go away, and when you open your mouth the words spill out. “I am going to be okay?” You ask, and you can’t even feel ashamed at how strangled it sounds. But again Dissolve is far more patient with you than you deserve, looking more amused than irate as she picks up your chart and straightens back up. “Oh yes Recruit. We were able to stop the burnout before there was any major damage, and you’re young- you’ll be back to normal before you know it. Plenty of recruits have a brush with burnout before they graduate, don’t you know?”

You knew- but you also knew how many of those trolls wound up shipped out of the academy. But you’d made enough outbursts tonight. “Yes, Ma’am. Thank you for speaking to me, I apologize for my poor manners.” It’s a rather sad apology, but Dissolve doesn’t say as much, patting your arm before she retreats. “It’s the steroids, Recruit. You’ll learn, they all do. I want you to get plenty of rest, an attendant will bring you a meal in a bit. You should have an appetite by then again.”

Watching her, you almost feel like you’re in a daze. Your relief has hit you like a physical blow, and even Bloodweb’s sniff as you sink back into your bed can’t dent the high that you feel. You were still useful, you still had your purpose.

That comfort is what you wrapped yourself in for the night, cemented into your mind rather than the mistake of your caretakers. The only failure there could have been was on you, but it was not a permanent one- you would recover, and you would be better.

It was your only option.


	11. This Is Your Fault- 7.5 Sweeps

Instructor Astricte’s office was small.

You understood why- she was new to the program, crowded out by trolls who had been here for much longer. Logically you knew she was a small fish in a big pond and it rankled at her. She had been transferred in, according to the gossip that was unavoidable in the recruit barracks. Once the Empress of her own little fishbowl, but no longer.

She wanted it back. And she saw you as the proper tool to get it.

You hadn’t always realized her motivations, but you had been under her tutelage for over half a sweep now and you had learned a lot about her. You’d been so thankful then to have an Instructor take such a keen interest in you. The way she had praised your natural insights, your clear future in command… It had been nice.

You had always stood apart from your peers and they had never let you forget it. Too highblooded and too young, too focused on becoming what the Empire wanted you to become to be worth the effort. They had graduated and the Instructors had been unsure of what to do with /you/. Recruit Urvata, done with his training but still only seven sweeps old. Cheeks still wriggler-soft and eyes grey as ash, no one would want you on their battery. You wouldn’t bond correctly, they would see you as a liability rather than a partner.

It had bothered you more than you had let on. Only in the comfort of your room could you toss and turn in your coon, kept awake by the worry of what they would do with you. You had learned all your lessons, you had the best marks in almost all fields in your group. But your age wasn’t something you could change with practice. You had worried that you’d just be forced to go through the same training over and over until you could finally be considered mature enough.

But then Instructor Astricte had stepped up for you. Pointed out your scores in leadership, problem solving, and tactics. Had assured the other Instructors that she would put you through a separate course to help turn you in to a commander that shone above all others. Of course you had been dazzled then. It was everything you had wanted.

Reality had set in later. That this was not a dream, that you had to work for this as hard as you had worked for everything else in your life. /Harder/ than anything else. Astricte had no other recruits to focus on, and her undivided focus let her catch slips that other Instructors might miss in the chaos of a group. You were the way she was going to get recognition from the Bureau, and failure was not an option.

Not without punishment.

It had been a simple obstacle course. You had been instructed to clear it faster than your other times, so you had pushed yourself. Astricte accepted nothing but your best, and your best had to constantly be improving. But you’d let yourself get too wrapped up in going fast to worry about being completely safe. You’d gotten to the top of a rope wall, ready to rappel back down it, and you had slipped.

“This is your fault, I hope you know.” Astricte’s voice always had a sharpness to it, a crack that made trolls pay attention to her. But now it was honed to a razor point, stabbing in to you almost as much as her claws did in to the ache of your forearm. You had taken first aid, you knew it was broken. Some part of you thinks Asricte knows as well, but it doesn’t stop her painful presses.

“Are you paying attention!?” The added venom makes you want to snap to attention, but you can’t. Not with her holding on to your arm, not without hurting yourself more. “Yes ma'am,” you respond, instantly- but your voice is threaded with pain, weak. It makes her lip curl, cobalt eyes narrowing as the pressure around your arm increased.

“This is nothing Recruit,” her words are pointed enough to pierce through the roar in your head, your instinctive need to listen to your instructor. You’re glad you’re already sitting because you’re not sure you could stand right now- you’re dizzy and your stomach is turning inside out. You’re pretty sure you’re dead in you dared to throw up in her office however, so you tried to force the sensation back. Ignore the sweat that you seemed to be covered in, how you just wished she’d stop hurting you.

But she was teaching you a lesson. You had to be thankful. You had to listen.

“On the frontlines you can’t be stopped by something like a little fracture,” she continues, so good at ignoring the way you shook. “Or you’re dead. Your entire battery could be dead, all because you can’t cope with a little discomfort. I’m not training a wriggler, am I Recruit Urvata?” Your mouth feels dry, but you have to always answer a question. “No Ma'am,” you croak, but the pressure on your arm doesn’t decrease.

“Good,” she doesn’t sound pleased, but she’s not angrier at least. Her eyes are still watching you, as always ready to catch you if you dared to slip. “I wouldn’t be wasting my time with a wriggler. I’m training a soldier. A soldier with two arms. And only one is broken. Psionics up recruit. I want to see a dagger.”

Orders are orders. You can’t disobey, because you’re a soldier. Soldiers always follow their superior officer’s orders. One day, you would be an officer- if you proved yourself. If you were worthy of being more than just a wriggler recruit.

Trying to focus your mind enough to call on your psionics was like trying to carry sand in your hands. It kept slipping, sliding away from you as you grasped at it. You knew your Instructor was not a patient woman, not when it came to commands.

It was your desperation that probably let you grab hold of your psionics long enough to think of the form, so thankful to her for choosing something so simple as you let it flicker to life. You held it in your uninjured hand, hoping that it would bring you relief- and having it sputter out as your Instructor just gripped harder, enough to wring a choked cry from you.

“Again, Recruit.” She didn’t sound any happier. She didn’t look any happier, but you couldn’t complain. You could only obey, because that was what a soldier did.

Pain was a tool like any other, used to make you better. Every lesson you learned was vital, every move had to be a step forward. You had had this pounded in to you since the first day you had arrived, but it was Instructor Astricte that tore you apart to inscribe the words in to your marrow. Dug through flesh down to the split in your ulna bone with her claws, filling you with more as she made you work past the pain.

Her words were constant, and you made yourself focus on them. It felt like a baptism of pain, peeling you away to your core. “This is what your Empire will ask of you Recruit. It will ask for your pain, your blood and sweat and tears. And you’ll give it all of it, every little speck of yourself. Over and over, because that is your duty as a soldier. Do you understand Recruit?” You could barely think enough to string your words together, but it was instinct to answer after all these sweeps. “Yes Ma'am,” you nearly whined, feeling your focus on your psionics starting to crumble again.

The release of your arm was almost enough to make you cry. You might have, if some part of you knew that Instructor Astricte would have no tolerance for it. “Get to the medbay,” she orders, and if she notices that you wobble when you rise to your feet she’s at least merciful not to comment on it. “Tell them to put a cast on you. But no painkillers. You’re going to need to learn to work in pain if you ever want to lead.”

Her eyes are watching you, expectant. “Yes Ma'am,” you say as evenly as you can, fighting off the faintness that wanted to envelop you. She drags out the silence for too long, long enough to make you sweat again before she finally takes a step back, turning towards her desk. “Dismissed, then.”

You want to get out of there as quick as possible, but you force yourself to go slow. To not seem eager, to make sure you could walk without pitching over. Your hand is on the doorknob, twisting it open when her words cut through your brain again.

“I will expect to see you back here once you are released from the medbay, Recruit. We’re not done here.”


	12. Breakable- 8 Sweeps

It had stopped raining at last, but it wasn’t much of a comfort to you. Right now, you were having a hard time even remembering what comfort /is/.

The ground of the woods around you is a quagmire, the front of your uniform saturated with mud where you rest on the forest floor. You’re no longer sure of how long you’ve been laying like this, but the discomfort of the cold and the wet has faded away over the hours, a distant concern that you knew how to ignore.

You couldn’t be cold, or hungry, or tired. You had a mission.

You kept your eyes on the road that cuts through the trees, keeping your hands tight on your rifle despite the chill of the metal. The bug tucked in your ear keeps you connected to the rest of your platoon, to your squad leaders and most importantly, to HQ. Latest reports had a rebel supply troop heading your way, trying to bring weapons to the growing enemy base located deep in the woods. It was your platoon’s job to eliminate the hostiles, destroy the supplies and keep the base cut off. The weaker they were, you’d been told, the easier it would be to destroy them.

You’d been out in the woods for a week now, lying low and waiting for the enemy. It was a miserable experience- the rain had been consistent for the last four nights, leaving you all drenched to the bone and wary about leaving more traces of your presence. Fires weren’t allowed for fear of alerting the rebels- your meals were all cold and bland, gels meant to provide the nutrition you all needed and nothing else. Your tents were cold and no amount of sopor patches could make your sleep sacs less damp or uncomfortable.

You knew better than to complain about it, but the rest of your platoon wasn’t as experienced. You had two batteries with you, two groups of ten soldiers around your age. You had known they were all undisciplined when you had been given the mission, but you hadn’t prepared yourself for the actual truth of it. They whined, quiet mutters under their breath like crying about the weather would change anything. They faltered at the mud, hated you for ordering them to continue on as if you had a choice in the matter.

But they listened. You were the platoon leader, and your word was law now. No one wanted to risk punishment, from you or from HQ when your platoon returned to give your reports. There was no place here for disobedience.

The moons are only slivers in the sky, finally breaking through the curtain of clouds to shine some light down to Alternia. Under the shelter of the trees your platoon stays low, hidden in the shadows, but the road is illuminated in front of you. You can hear the fidgeting of impatient trolls around you, those tired of waiting so still. Your ears catch the off-on click of the safety of a rifle to your right, echoed again as the soldier continued to fiddle with their weapon. Perhaps to relieve stress, perhaps from boredom- it was unacceptable.

But you couldn’t scold them now, not when the enemy could be upon you at any moment. You could do nothing that might alert the rebels of your location and only hope that the sound doesn’t reach the road. That it would be dismissed as the sound of the forest, a stray beast among the trees. You had stressed the need for discipline during your mission over and over again back at camp, told them all multiple times that they needed to stay still, silent. But when faced with the tedium and discomfort, they faltered. You almost wished that you could look over to them, identify the noise maker now so you could recommend corrective punishment later- but you knew better.

Every crack of a twig in the distance could be the enemy. You had to remain vigilant and hope that your batteries would follow your example. And if they fucked up, you had to hope that it wasn’t you that got shot for their mistakes.

At least you couldn’t see any of the second battery team stationed across from you on the road. If they were making any noise you couldn’t hear it from here, masked by distance and the more natural ambience of the forest. You’d crush the enemy between you in a rain of bullets, dispatch of them all in a few fatal seconds of gunfire.

You force yourself not to tense when you hear the distinctive sound of boots upon gravel, see figures moving down the road. They’re masked by the fog from the lingering rainfall, distant specters moving in a loose formation. You keep your breathing slow and calculated, hoping your soldier’s eyes are on you as you raise your arm but stay still otherwise. You know when you drop your hand down, your batteries will fire. Your mission will be over, one way or another.

But you waited, pumper racing as the enemy approached. There was the worry that one of your soldiers would get ahead of themselves, fire before the signal as the figures loomed closer and closer. But your collective training held strong, all the words given to you all from your Instructors keeping your platoon steady. Patient.

Your enemies didn’t look to be in much better condition than you were, you noted as they came close enough for you to pick out details. Just as damp, looking just as tired and hungry. Not nearly alert enough to notice the ambush waiting in late for them, not until it’s too late. You wait until they’re close enough for you to see the mud on their uniforms, the glint of their weapons, and you let your hand fall.

The night explodes in to light and sound, but you’re familiar with it as you hold your rifle steady, take aim and pull the trigger. Your weapon adds to the chorus and above the sound of gunfire you hear the excited yells of your platoonmates, the screams of the enemy. You watch a woman try to raise her weapon before she screamed, toppling to the ground in a spray of mud- when she doesn’t stir again you raise yourself up, voice loud against the din.

“Alpha Battery cease fire, eyes out for stragglers! Bravo Battery, forward!” You’re moving even as you speak, slapping a fresh magazine in to your rifle as you move forward out of the trees. Your soldiers already know what to do- no quarter given for these rebels. They were all down, but that didn’t mean they were dead.

Your squad moved with you, slipping out of your cover and down to the road. Your boot squelches in the mud, tries to unbalance you, but you recover and keep moving forward. Many of the enemies are down, still as puppets with their strings suddenly cut. But not all of them- you see movement and you head over to it, eyes hard on the troll rolling in the mud.

They’re clutching at their side, eyes wide as they gave long gasping cries. They must be a bit older than you, eyes starting to fill in with vibrant maroon as they stare up at you from the ground as you loom above them. You know better than to feel any sympathy for your enemy though, training your rifle on them for a moment, long enough for them to see it as you tighten your finger on the trigger-

-and then pulling it away, face impassive as you slid your finger back off of it and slipped the safety back on. “Bang bang,” you tell them, listening to the similar words being spoken around you as your team found the other still moving rebels. “You’re dead.”

The ‘enemy’ grimaces at you once more, giving one last overdramatic gasp before they close their eyes and go limp on the ground. But there’s no blood mingling with the mud around you and despite their stillness, you can see the steady rise and fall of their chest, hitching in a way that you think they might be laughing at you.

“All clear!” The leader of Bravo Battery tells you and you flick on the safety and take a step back from your fallen opponent. They’re still quietly laughing and there’s a moment where you wish you could shoot at them just to get them to shut up. But you knew better- you’d been instructed not to fire the blanks too close to someone. At such close range they could still inflict burns, and the noise… No one wanted a deaf soldier.

It was the last night of this training camp, and you were becoming eager to be done with it. Even the thrill of a decisive victory was dulled after so many nights at work on it, either on the side of the ambusher or the ambushee. It was necessary lessons for all of you- how to lead for those in positions like you, how to follow for those under you. How to get in to the mindset of the enemy, try to safely deliver supplies in hostile territory. You knew there were Instructors watching, there always were- ready to critique those who faltered, dole out the rare praise when they deemed it.

You’d done your best to avoid making mistakes. To show that this was what you were meant to be doing. After all, you were performing not only to show your own potential, but to demonstrate Instructor Astricte’s fine teaching.

The crate of 'supplies’ was next to a fallen enemy and you moved over to it, punching the sensor on it to turn the green light to red. Part of being on the rebel side was keeping it safe- some teams failed on their own from being too rough with it, detonating the 'rebel explosives’ before any contact with the enemy. You disliked having to play on the opposite side, but you had succeeded in bringing your cache to the drop off site four times out of six. It was a task easier said than done when you were constantly on the lookout for ambushes, but for a team of rather fresh recruits… You thought they had performed admirably.

You could see some of them exchanging fist-bumps with their fellow squadmates and you could hear a whoop from where Alpha Battery had swung around, watching your back. It was loud enough to get a frown from you, wanting to go over there and tell them that there could easily be other teams out there waiting to pounce while they were busy celebrating. There could be, in an actual battle. Rebels were sneaky creatures, always ready to strike when they saw weakness. The gunfire could have easily brought them to attention.

But this was all pretend. To your left one of the fallen soldiers let out a loud fart and your closest soldier moved away from him with a squeak of disgust, triggering a round of snickers from both comrades and opponents. “Enough,” you commanded, getting their attention as you shouldered your rifle. “Form up! Alpha Battery, take lead. Bravo Battery, keep your eyes open. The Instructors might decide to surprise us, since you are becoming so confident. Back to base!”

You ignored the few groans your orders got you, face impassive as they filed up. After so many nights their tempers were coming out, but you knew that as soon as you arrived back to the instructors those who had stepped out of line would get what they deserved. Just because this was all training didn’t mean they could treat it like a game, and you knew that the Instructors would keep hammering in that lesson in to them until it either stuck or they broke.

As long as they didn’t reflect poorly upon you, it mattered little. They had obeyed what they had been ordered to do, and you had done as you had been trained. You just had to hope that Instructor Astricte was pleased with your final grading when this was all over.

“Platoon Victor,” you raised your voice hard, pleased when it hit the training in all your soldiers- at attention, awaiting your command. As they should be, as you were. Good soldiers.

“Move out!”


End file.
